WITHERED  LEAVES, 


PKOM 


MEMORY'S    GARLAND 


\  ABIGAIL  STANLEY  .HANNA. 


"  There  comes  a  voice  that  awakes  my  soul  ; 
It  IK  the  voice  of  years  that  are  gone, — 
They  roll  before  me  with  all  their  deeds." 


PROVIDENCE: 

A.  CRAWFORD  GREENE  &  BROTHER,  PRINTERS  TO  THE  STATE. 
1857. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1S57,  by 

ABIGAIL"  STANLEY  IIANXA, 
lu  the  Clerk's  Office  of  tho  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Rhode  Inland, 


PREFACE. 


THESE  pages  were  not  written  for  public  inspec 
tion;  but  to  beguile  the  weary  hours  of  indispo 
sition,  and  present  a  record  of  thoughts  and  senti 
ments  to  the  eyes  of  my  children,  after  my  lips 
are  sealed  in  death. 

By  the  recommendation  of  friends,  I  Imve  de 
cided  to  submit  them  to  the  public. 

From  a  criticising  public  I  should  shrink  ;  but 
to  a  sympathizing  public  I  would  appeal,  trusting 
the  holy  mantle  of  chanty  will  be  flung  over  my 
errors,  and  my  motives  appreciated. 

I  would  take  this  opportunity  to  tender  my 
hearty  and  sincere  thanks  to  my  patrons,  who 
have  aided  me  in  this  enterprise,  not  only  by  their 
subscriptions,  but  by  their  words  of  sympathy 
and  encouragement,  which  have  fillen  like  sun 
shine  upon  my  gloomy  pathway,  warming  my 

desolate  heart,  and  leaving  a  sweet  fragrance  upon 

* 

2068385 


IV.  PREFACE. 

the  memory,  which  shall  live  on  and  on,  through 
the  long  ages  of  eternity  ;  for  beautifully  and  em 
phatically  has  Mrs.  Childs  said, 

"  Goodness  and  beauty  live  forever." 

Perhaps  I  should  apologise  for  the  pensive 
strain  in  which  I  have  written,  but  it  has  been  in 
shady  places,  when  the  body  was  suffering  from 
disease,  and  I  felt  almost  too  weak  to  breathe. 
Dear  reader,  did  you  ever  feel  that  you  were  dy 
ing  ?  that  there  was  but  a  step  between  you  and 
death?  How  natural,  at  such  a  time,  and  in  such 
a  place,  to  contemplate  the  circumstances  con 
nected  with  the  deaths  of  dear,  departed  friends. 

Hoping  this  may  lead  some  thoughtless  one  to 
reflection,  I  submit  it  to  the  investigation  of  a 
generous  public. 

But  if  I  fail  in  this,  shall  I  have  written  in  vain  7 
O,  no;  it  is  but  a  fulfilment  in  part  of  the  great 
mission,  "do  with  all  thy  might  what  thy  hand 
fmdeth  to  do."  If  we  have  but  one  small  talent 
we  are  commanded  to  put  it  upon  usury,  "  that 
the  Lord  may  receive  his  own  when  he  cometh." 

Some  pieces  were  contributions  from  the  pen 
of  a  loved  sister,  whose  sentiments  and  principles 
are  in  unison  with  my  own,  and  so  they  flow  on 
together,  in  one  common  channel.  Those  desig- 
n:ifed  by  a  star  (*)  in  the  Index,  arc  from  her  pen. 


PREFACE.  V. 

On  page  141,  near  the  bottom,  the  paragragh 
which  now  reads,  "  You  did  not  expect  me  to  be 
found  alone  now,  did  you'/"  should  read,  "You 
did  not  expect  to  find  me  alive  now,"  &c. 

On  page  272,  in  the  llth  line  from  the  top, 
in  the  word  "  rugg'd,"  the  letter  c  should  be  sub 
stituted  for  the  apostrophe. 

These  errors  escaped  attention  in  reading  the 
proof,  before  it  went  to  press. 

When  autumn  winds  are  round  us  sighing, — 
AN  hen  pulo  flowers  are  'round  us  dying, 
It  pain  and  pleasure  to  us  gives, 
To  gather  up  the  wither'd  leaves. 

The  year  so  tasteful  flung  her  flow'rs 
In  garlands  gay,  o'er  sylvan  bow'rs  ; 
]>ut  where  they  hung — so  brief — 
Xow  only  hangs  the  wither'd  leaf. 

Dear  leader,  thus  tJ  thee  I  como, 

With  tresses  blossom'd  for  the  tomb  ; 

And  offer  what  the  season  gives, — 

My  faded  flow'rs — rny  WITHERED  LEAVES. 

A.  S.   If. 


INDEX. 


PAGE. 

Shadows  of  the  Past, 3 

Reminiscences  ;  The  Old  Homestead,       ...  5 

The  Old  House, 14 

The  Old  School  House,            ....  22 

The  Grave  Yard, 28 

Midnight  Scene?,  or,  Pictures  of  Human  Life,         .  36 

Picture  No.  2, 38 

Picture  No.  3,         ......  41 

Picture  No.  4,             43 

The  History  of  a  Household,             ....  48 

Lines  written  during  convalescence  from  Brain  Fever,  83 

The  Angel  Cousin,             89 

Lines  written  at  the  close  of  the  year  1842,           .         .  107 

Lines  written  on  the  New  Year  1843,        .         .         .  110 

The  Unhappy  Marriage,       ......  112 

On  the  year  1852, 128 

Consumption,        .         .         .         .          .          .          .         .131 

To  Mrs.  A.  B., 150 

An  Evening  in  cur  Village,          .....  153 

Contemplations  in  a  Grave  Yard,      ....  163 

A  Scene  on  the  Kennebec  River,          ....  163 


Vlll.  INDEX. 

ToMissH.B ,  17:2 

Lines  written  in  an  Album,           .....  175 

A  Long  Night  in  the  Eighteenth  Century,         .         .  170 
On  Hearing  a  Bird  Sing,  Dec.  19,  1826,       .         .         .186 

Variety, 187 

Henriette  Clinton, 189 

The  Child, 208 

On  the  Death  of  Ellen  A.  B ,         ....  210 

The  Order  of  Nature, 212 

The  Seasons,         .                 217 

Dedication  of  an  Album, 220 

To  Mrs.  S.  on  the  Death  of  her  infant,         .         .         .222 

To  Mrs.  S.  on  the  Death  of  her  Son,         ...  224 

The  first  and  last  Voyage  of  the  Atlantic,             .         .  227 

The  Fatal  Feast, 237 

To  the  Maiden, 241 

To  Mrs.  B.  on  the  Death  of  her  Son,         ...  242 

O  Come  Back,  my  Brother,           .....  244 

The  Twins, 246 

On  the  Frailty  of  Earthly  Things 252 

To  a  Friend, 255 

The  Mother  and  her  Child, 257 

A  Mother's  Prayer, 2GO 

Lines  in  an  Album,           ......  202 

On  the  Death  of  a  Mother, 263 

The  Music  of  Earth, 265 

On  the  Death  of  Mrs.  C.  P.  Baldwin,  .         .         .266 

Lines  written  in  a  Sick  Room,  April  15th,  1855,       .  266 

Lines  written  in  a  Siek  Room,  July  20th,  1855,            .  270 

To  a  Friend, .272 

The  Mother's  Watch, 274 

Why  should  I  Smile,* 276 

The  Youth's  Return  :*                                                        .  278 


INDEX.  IX. 

To  A s* 281 

The  Beauties  of  Nature,*  283 

On  the  Death  of  Willie  T.  White,  ....  289 

The  Human  Heart,* ,290 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend,*      .  .292 

To  a  Friend,*      .....  .294 

Happiness,*  ....  ...  296 

A  Picture  of  Human  Life, 297 

Flowers,*  ....  301 

The  Old  Castle,*  .  .  302 
The  Myrtle,*  ...  .303 

Death, 304 

The  Home  of  Childhood,*  ...  307 

The  Happy  Land,*  .  , 309 

Devotion,*  ........  310 

To  a  Friend,* 312 

Lines  written  upon  the  Death  of  Two  Sisters,  .  314 

To  I ,  .  316 

Lines  for  a  Friend  upon  the  20th  Anniversary  of  her 

Birthday, 317 

Human  Thought,  ...  .  319 

Lines  written  upon  the  Departure  of  a  Brother,  .  321 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  Friend,  ....  323 

The  Power  of  Custom,  ,  .  .  325 

Annie  Howard,  .  ...  .  327 

We  all  do  Perish  like  the  Leaf,  .  .  335 

Life  Compared  to  the  Seasons,  .....  336 

Writing  Composition,  .  .  .  337 
Lines  written  in  Answer  to  the  Question  "  Where  is 

our  Poet?"  .  .339 

My  Husband's  Grave,  •  •  340 
Lines  written  upon  the  Young  who  have  recently  died 

in  our  Village, 347 


X.  . 

Conscience,       ........  349 

Lines  written  in  an  Album,           .....  351 

Lines  from  the  pen  of  my  Husband,  who  is  Deceased,  352 

Hope,           ....;....  350 

Visit  to  Mount  Auburn, 357 

Lines  from  Mary  to  her  Father  in  California,  with  her 

Daguerreotype, 3C3 

A  Reminiscence,       ..*....  365 
Letter  of  Resignation  from  Mrs.  Ilannato  the  Mater 
nal  Association, 368 

Improvement  of  Time,         ......  371 

Lines  written  on  the  Death  of  Frank,       .         .         .  373 

The  Pleasures  of  Memory,           .         .                           .  375 
The  Song  of  the  Weary  One,  .                                     .377 

Lines  inscribed  to  a  Brother, 379 

Changes*           .....                  .        .  380 

Lines  to  Mrs,  S on  the  Death  of  an  Infant,         .  382 

The  Spirits  of  the  Dead, 384 

To  Mrs.  JL  C.  Bucklin,  by  her  Father,         .         .         .388 

Tho  Widow's  Home,             ....                 •  387 

To  the  Reader, 381) 


WITHERED    LEAVES. 


WITHERED   LEAVES, 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PAST, 

SISTER,  the  solemn  midnight  hour 
Is  meet,  to  weave  the  web  of  thought, 

To  trace  the  shadowy  imagery, 

From  fancy's  secret  chambers  brought. 

To  enter  Memory's  hidden  cell, 

And  bid  the  sentinel  appear ; 
Her  strange,  mysterious  tales  to  tell, 

And  wipe  the  dust  from  by-gone  years . 

To  wander  back  down  time's  dark  stream, 
And  from  its  margin  pluck  the  flowers, 

To  twine  them  with  the  moon's  pale  beams, 
Then  fling  them  over  Memory's  bow'rs. 

To  gather  all  the  fragments  up, 

The  phantoms  chase  of  other  years  ; 

Their  blighted  joys,  their  withered  hopes, 
Their  clouds,  their  sunshine,  and  their  teats. 
A2 


SHADOWS    OF   THE   PAST. 

We'll  wander  forth  while  others  sleep, 
Fanned  gently  by  the  night  wind's  sigh  : 

And  thus  our  midnight  vigils  keep, 

While  night's  fair  lamps  burn  bright  on  high. 

We'll  wander  in. the  realms  of  thought, 
That  boundless  space,  who  may  define  ? 

From  which  more  dazzling  gems  are  brought 
Than  sparkle  in  Golconda's  mine. 

Then,  sister,  let  us  linger  not, 

The  conscious  moon  her  lamp  holds  high, 
And  with  her  smiling,  placid  face, 

Beams  from  the  chambers  of  the  sky. 

Touched  by  fancy's  magic  spell, 

We'll  conjure  up  the  things  of  yore  ; 

From  their  cold  chambers  bring  the  dead, 
And  friends  of  former  years  restore. 

But  oh,  the  shadows  will  not  stay, — 
The  dreamy  shadows  of  the  past ; 

Before  the  sun  they'll  fade  away — 
Their  mystic  visions  cannot  last. 

Then  let  us  leave  the  world  of  dreams, 
Where  shapes  and  shadows  melt  away  ; 

Bathe  in  salvation's  cooling  streams, 
And  soar  to  realms  of  endless  day. 


REMINISCENCES. 


REMINISCENCES. 
CHAPTER  I. 

THE    OLD   HOMESTEAD. 

COME  gentle  reader,  let  us  entwine  arms  with 
Memory,  and  wander  back  through  the  avenues 
of  life  to  childhood's  sunny  dell,  and  as  we  return 
more  leisurely  pluck  the  wild  flowers  that  grow 
beside  the  pathway,  and  entwine  them  for  Mem 
ory's  garland,  and  inhale  the  fragrance  of  by-gone 
years.  0,  there  are  rich  treasures  garnered  up  in 
Memory's  secret  chambers,  enclosed  in  the  reces 
ses  of  the  soul,  to  spring  into  life  at  the  touch  of 
her  magic  wand.  Here  let  us  sit  on  this  mossy 
stone,  beneath  this  wide  spread  elm,  and  as  its 
waving  branches  fan  our  feverish  cheeks,  fold 
back  the  dim,  misty  curtains  of  the  past,  the 
silent  past,  and  hold  communings  with  the  years 
that  are  gone.  Listen  to  the  murmur  of  yonder 
rippling  stream,  that  breaks  like  far  oft'  music 
upon  the  ear,  and  although  half  a  century  of 
years  have  passed  since  I  first  stood  upon  its 
margin,  and  listened  to  its  dirge-like  hum,  no  trace 
of  age  is  left  upon  it.  The  silent  years  that  have 
swept  over  its  surface,  bearing  away  the  genera- 
A3 


6  REMINISCENCES. 

tions  of  men,  have  left  this  stream  sporting  and 
dancing  on  in  all  the  freshness  of  youth  and 
beauty. 

Here  is  the  grassy  knoll  where  we  have  stood 
tiptoe  and  reached  our  tiny  hands  a  little  higher 
to  catch  the  gorgeous  butterfly  that  floated  through 
summer  air  on  silken  wings,  and  then  clapped 
them  with  joyous  glee  at  our  own  disappointment, 
as  it  sailed  higher  up  into  the  blue  air. 

Then  came  the  song  of  the  warbling  bird,  the 
hum  of  the  mountain  bee,  and  the  rustling  of 
the  leaves  as  they  were  stirred  by  the  gentle 
summer  breeze, — all  making  sweet  melody  in 
Nature's  many  voiced  harmonies. 

Here  we  have  sat  for  hours,  wrapt  in  dreamy 
reverie,  wondering  why  the  long,  fleecy  clouds 
that  chased  each  other  over  the  sun,  should  cast 
such  deep,  broad  shadows  over  so  fair  a  land 
scape  ;  little  heeding  that  they  were  emblemati 
cal  of  the  shadows  that  coming  years  would  cast 
upon  our  pathway  as  we  passed  on  in  the  journey 
of  human  life;  but  oh,  how  often  has  the  sun  of 
hope  been  dimmed  by  the  shadows  of  disappoint 
ment. 

But  let  us  leave  this  sequestered  spot  and  wan 
der  over  other  scenes  familiar  to  childhood's  years. 

Beneath  yon  large  reservoir  of  water  that  flashes 
in  the  sun  beams  as  the  summer  winds  heave  its 
troubled  bosom,  formerly  stretched  out  an  exten 
sive  meadow,  where  we  used  to  stroll  for  amuse 
ment  ;  or  to  gather  the  rich,  ripe  strawberries  that 
lay  concealed  beneath  the  thick,  tall  grass  that 
sighed  before  the  breeze  like  the  bosom  of  the 


REMINISCENCES.  7 

ocean,  fanned  by  the  winds  of  heaven.  Here,  too, 
we  gathered  sweet  blue  violets,  yellow  buttercups, 
Ladies'  traces  and  London  pride,  with  all  tho 
beautiful  variety  of  simple  meadow  flowers,  and 
entwined  them  into  pretty  wreaths,  or  fragrant 
boquets.  But  the  touch  of  time  has  rested  upon 
this  spot,  and  his  finger  has  left  a  deep  impress 
upon  it.  The  sloping  hills  that  surround  it  re 
main  the  same.  The  trees  bear  some  traces  of 
decay,  but  here  stand  the  thorn  bushes  that  used 
to  scatter  their  showers  of  white  blossoms  around 
us  like  descending  snow-flakes,  still  filled  with 
green  leaves  and  small  red  apples,  surrounded  by 
the  prickly  thorns  that  to  all  appearances  are  the 
same  that  we  grasped  fifty  years  ago. 

The  sand-hills  where  the  juvenile  part  of  the 
neighborhood  used  to  congregate  to  celebrate 
the  happy  twilight  hour  in  merry  sports,  have 
literally  passed  away  ;  having  been  shovelled  up 
and  transported  to  the  various  places  for  many 
miles  around,  where  the  multiplicity  of  chimnies 
mark  the  increasing  population  of  the  village, 
that  passing  years  have  added  to  it. 

As  we  pass  the  antiquated  moss-covered  bars 
that  admit  us  into  the  dear  old  orchard,  and  cross 
the  little  brook  that  bubbles  on  forever  in  the 
same  monotonous  sound,  requiring  but  one  smooth 
round  stepping  stone  for  a  bridge,  we  sigh  and 
feel  that  the  change  of  years  is  upon  us,  for  here 
almost  every  thing  speaks  of  decay.  True  the 
hills,  the  ponds,  the  rocks  (and  I  had  almost  said 
the  speckled  tortoise  that  lias  crawled  up  to  sun 
itself  on  their  summit),  remain  the  same. 


8  REMINISCENCES. 

Sit  down  on  this  dilapidated  trunk,  for  the 
burden  of  years  is  upon  us;  and  as  I  glance  upon 
this  frame,  I  can  scarcely  realize  it  is  the  same 
form  that  used  to  impress  this  spot  with  childish 
footprints.  This  trunk  was  then  a  beautiful,  state 
ly  tree,  bearing  its  leafy  honors  thick  upon  it,  and 
laden  with  delicious  golden  fruit.  But  the  glory 
of  the  orchard  has  departed,  and  why  should  we 
linger  any  longer  in  its  confines,  as  it  only  awak 
ens  sad  memories,  and  says  in  an  audible  voice, 

u  Chance  and  change  are  busy  ever." 

The  carriage  road  that  passes  through  it,  almost 
blinding  us  with  dust,  was  formerly  a  well  beaten 
foot-path  for  the  accommodation  of  the  neigh 
borhood  as  they  walked  from  one  part  of  it  to  the 
other.  Let  us  follow  the  road  up  this  steep 
aclivity,  and  enter  the  large  capacious  door-yard 
which  contained  several  rods  of  land,  and  was 
surrounded  by  an  old  fashioned  stone  wall,  wrhich 
has  been  beaten  by  at  least  seventy-five  winters' 
storms  ;  and  the  thick  covering  of  green  moss 
upon  it  bespeaks  its  age. 

The  west  end  was  crossed  by  a  fence  contain 
ing  a  small  strip  of  land  for  the  purpose  of  rais 
ing  early  summer  vegetables.  Here  now  is  erect 
ed  the  splendid  dwelling  house  of  one  of  the 
wealthiest  citizens  of  the  village,  and  the  garden 
is  converted  into  front  yard,  building  spot  and 
back  yard,  containing  all  the  usual  necessary 
appendages  to  a  dwelling  place,  so  that  here  all 
traces  of  former  days  have  passed  from  the  spot, 


REMINISCENCES.  9 

and  only  live  inscribed  upon  the  retentive  tablet 
of  Memory.  On  the  east  end  was  another  small 
enclosure  where  we  used  to  spend  our  leisure  hours 
in  the  cultivation  of  flowers  and  medicinal  plants. 
Here  the  tall  lilac  waved  its  graceful  head  beneath 
our  bed-room  window,  and  the  morning  sun,  as 
he  parted  the  rosy  curtains  of  the  eastern  sky  and 
came  forth  rejoicing  to  run  his  glad  race,  and  pour 
a  flood  of  golden  light  upon  the  earth,  shot  his 
first  crimson  rays  upon  the  thick  curtains  of 
morning  glories  that  hung  clustering  over  our 
window,  fragrant  with  their  verdant  leaves,  and 
rich  purple  blossoms,  and  causing  the  dew-drops 
to  glisten  like  sparkling  diamonds,  while  the 
sweet  odors  of  many  scented  flowers  were  borne 
upon  every  passing  breeze.  But  could  we  now 
recognize  this  spot  ?  oh  no !  the  destroyer  has 
been  there,  and  there  remains  no  trace  of  herb 
or  flower  ;  an  ell  has  been  built  on  to  that  end 
of  the  house,  and  the  barn  has  been  moved,  so 
that  our  beautiful  garden  has  been  transformed 
into  a  door  yard,  and  all  traces  of  beauty  are 
obliterated.  Crossing  the  garden  you  next  entered 
upon  a  large  level  lot  covered  with  the  richest 
grass  that  annually  used  to  fall  before  the  sythe  of 
the  mower,  and  descended  by  sloping  hills  to  the 
above  mentioned  luxuriant  meadow ;  through 
which  ran  a  quiet  winding  stream  that  used  to  af 
ford  us  an  abundance  of  speckled  trout  and  shin 
ing  pickerel,  to  say  nothing  about  the  many  play 
hours  spent  upon  its  margin  ;  but  now  the  stream 
is  lost  beneath  the  vast  reservoir,  and  has  washed 
A5 


10  REMINISCENCES. 

away  all  traces  of  flowers,  strawberries  and  ver 
dant  grass  that  used  to  mark  its  serpentine  wan 
derings,  by  assuming  a  deeper  green. 

The  west  end  of  this  enclosure  was  intersected 
by  what  used  to  be  called  Virginia  fence,  then 
crossed  into  two  separate  places  dividing  one  into 
a  sheep-pasture,  the  other  into  a  large  garden  for 
the  cultivation  of  winter  vegetables.  In  the  pas 
ture  used  to  graze  a  large  flock  of  sheep,  and  the 
snowy  lambs  sported  over  the  rocks  and  ran  down 
the  hillside  ;  does  this  remain  the  same  ? 

The  rocks  have  been  removed  out  of  their 
places,  and  in  their  stead  dwelling  houses  have 
been  erected,  and  the  busy  hum  of  active  life 
there  resounds,  and  the  prattling  of  children  is 
heard  instead  of  the  bleating  of  lambs. 

Crossing  the  stream  upon  the  remains  of  an 
old  dam,  and  passing  the  extent  of  meadow,  we 
entered  upon  a  rich  clover  field,  adjoining  which 
was  the  corn  field,  that  in  autumn  used  to  be 
laden  with  yellow  corn  and  golden  pumpkins. 
Contiguous  to  this  was  a  delightful  grove  com 
posed  of  thrifty  walnut  trees,  carefully  cleared 
from  under  brush  and  covered  with  verdant  grass, 
and  ornamented  here  and  there  with  a  grassy 
hillock,  that  rendered  it  a  pleasant  retreat  from 
the  scorching  rays  of  the  summer  sun.  The  air 
was  filled  with  the  notes  of  the  feathered  song 
sters  that  built  their  nests  and  warbled  in  their 
branches,  mingling  their  music  with  the  rustling 
leaves  and  the  murmur  of  the  distant  spring  that 
rippled  near,  for  a  gradual  descent  brought  us 
down  to  the  spring  lot,  which,  with  the  grove 


REMINISCENCES.  11 

and  the  swamp  that  lay  below,  was  used  for  pas 
turage.  But  let  us  pause  and  take  a  survey  of  its 
present  appearances.  The  beautiful  trees  have 
all  fallen  before  the  woodman's  axe,  not  one  re 
maining  as  a  link  with  their  past  history;  the 
old  fence  has  been  removed  that  divided  it  from 
the  cornfield,  and  surrounded  by  a  new  and  beauti 
ful  one,  it  now  forms  a  part  of  a  commodious 
Cemetery,  is  laid  out  into  tasteful  lots  as  the  last 
resting  place  of  the  dead. 

Swreet  spot;  methinks  it  is  meet  for  the  weary 
children  of  earth  to  slumber  in  this  quiet  place. 

At  its  foot  gurgles  the  quiet  winding  stream, 
and  far  away  comes  the  din  and  hum  of  active  life, 
thronged  with  the  busy  crowd  whose  restless  feet 
are  bearing  them  swiftly  on  to  the  end  of  life's 
journey,  where  they  must  resign  the  cumbrous 
load  and  "join  the  pale  caravan  in  the  realms  of 
shade." 

Descending  from  the  grove  on  the  western  side, 
was  a  low,  swampy  piece  of  ground,  that  had 
never  yielded  to  cultivation,  where  we  sometimes 
used  to  jump  from  one  hillock  toanotherin  search 
of  swamp  pinks  and  cheeses  which  were  to  be 
found  there  in  great  abundance. 

It  was  ever  covered  with  low  brusfy,  of  natural 
growth,  and  apparently  no  change  had  passed  over 
it  from  its  creation,  save  the  natural  springing 
up  and  decaying  of  its  productions.  And  so, 
almost  fifty  years  ago,  we  left  it,  but  how  does  it 
meet  us  upon  our  return  ?  Art  has  touched  it  with 
her  handy  work.  It  has  been  drained ;  the  brush 
cut  from  its  surface,  rich  loam  carted  upon  it, 
A6 


12  REMINISCENCES. 

and  now  it  presents  the  appearance  of  a  well  cul 
tivated  garden,  is  covered  with  luxuriant  grass, 
and  staked  out  into  yards  for  the  accommodation 
of  families  who  wish  to  lie  down  side  by  side,  in 
the  sleep  of  death.  Many,  already,  are  beautified 
with  flowers  and  shrubbery;  and  in  some,  already 
arises  the  marble  slab,  pointing  to  the  place 
where  some  weary  pilgrim  reposes,  free  from 
all  the  earth  calls  good  or  great ;  for  this,  too, 
is  enclosed  in  the  Cemetery. 

But  passing  the  entrance  into  the  Cemetery,  we 
•will  pass  back  by  a  circuitous  route,  to  the  dear 
old  home.  The  road,  the  hills,  the  rocks,  the 
trees,  and  many  of  the  buildings  are  the  same  ; 
but,  oh,  how  many  and  varied  are  the  changes 
that  strike  the  eye,  and  awaken  in  the  breast  ten 
thousand  bewildering  remembrances.  Truly  has 
the  human  heart  been  compared  to  a  many  stringed 
instrument,  giving  diversity  of  sound  as  it  is  swept 
by  different  winds. 

One  of  the  most  conspicuous  changes,  is  the 
withdrawal  of  a  large  pond  of  water  that  had 
been  pent  up  by  a  high  dam,  over  which  the  water 
fell,  over  the  bridge  we  are  now  crossing,  roaring, 
casting  up  spray,  and  then  foaming  and  dancing 
off,  into  the  meadow  below.* 

Many  of  the  buildings  have  changed  their  old 
fashioned  coats  of  red  for  the  more  modern  one 
of  white,  which  is  the  case  with  our  own  old 
homestead.  Opposite  the  house,  or  across  the 
way,  as  we  used  to  call  it  (for  the  road  was  be 
tween),  stood,  what  was  ever  called,  the  woods. 
Here,  in  their  season,  we  gathered  the  largest 

A6 


REMINISCENCE*.  13 

whortleberries,  the  best  walnuts,  and  the  nicest 
black  birch  that  were  to  be  found  all  the  coun 
try  round.  And  when  we  had  wearied  our  limbs, 
and  filled  our  baskets,  how  often  have  we  pulled 
over  the  tops  of  the  smaller  trees,  and  seating  our 
selves  upon  some  slender  branch,  enjoyed  a  real 
juvenile  ride  upon  horseback,  each  one  having  a 
particular  tree  designated  by  the  name  of  a  horse. 
Immediately  opposite  the  house,  stood  a  high 
hill,  composed  of  jagged  rocks,  behind  which  the 
sun  ever  sank  to  his  oosy  bed  in  the  west,  and 
where  I  have  watched  the  forked  lightning  play 
as  the  blackened  cloud  gathered  together,  ominous 
of  a  portending  storm,  while  the  distant  thunder 
murmured  behind  their  eternal  summit.  This 
stands  the  same,  and  as  you  glance  down  the  other 
side,  you  see  the  broad,  black  river,  still  rolling 
at  its  base.  But  the  woods — the  bright  green 
woods — where  are  they?  Echo  answers,  "where?" 
Supplanting  the  place  is  a  young  thrifty  orchard, 
and  at  the  base  of  the  hill  is  a  finely  cultivated 
piece  of  land,  and  there  is  nothing  but  the  ever 
lasting  hills  to  tell  us  of  the  dear  spot  where  we 
wandered  in  the  halcyon  days  of  childhood ;  we 
cannot  even  exclaim  with  Cowper — 

"I  sat  on  the  trees  under  which  I  had  played." 

Dear  old  trees  !  methinks,  even  now,  I  can  hear 
your  music,  when  fanned  by  the  summer  breeze, 
or  see  you  toss  your  surging  branches,  when 
rocked  by  the  autumnal  gale.  Well  do  I  remem 
ber  your  cooling  shade  as  I  walked  beneath  it  to 


14  REMINISCENCES. 

the  district  school  house,  which  was  situated  in 
one  corner  of  the  dear  old  orchard.  There,  too, 
has  been  a  change  ;  the  rocks  upon  which  we  used 
to  play  have  been  blown  to  atoms,  and  the  habita 
tions  of  men  occupy  their  places.  Truly,  all 
things  are  passing  away ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE     OLD     HOUSE. 

We  have  crossed  the  threshhold  and  entered  the 
dear  old  house.  Back,  back,  these  tumultuous 
throbbings  of  the  heart,  and  these  tears  which 
vainly  rising  to  the  eyelids,  fall  back  upon  the 
heart  as  wanting  power  to  flow.  Who,  after  an 
absence  of  many  years,  on  entering  the  house 
where  they  first  inhaled  the  breath  of  life,  but  has 
been  overpowered  by  conflicting  emotions,  as  the 
tide  of  Memory  rolled  in,  like  a  flood,  bearing  so 
much  upon  its  bosom,  and  where  so  many  asso 
ciations  crowd  upon  the  mind,  it  is  difficult  to  lend 
expression  to  the  ideas. 

The  interior  of  the  house  has  not  been  mate 
rially  changed,  except  the  additional  ell,  which 
contains  a  kitchen,  pantry,  and  such  like  con 
veniences  for  progressing  household  labor  ;  the 
kitchen  being  transformed  into  a  sitting  room. 


REMINISCENCES.  15 

with  no  change,  excepting  a  new  coat  of  paint, 
large  windows  instead  of  small,  paper  instead  of 
bare  walls,  and  a  place  for  a  stove  pipe  instead  of 
the  ample  fire  place,  that  used  to  shed  its  cheer 
ing  light  and  warmth  over  the  whole  room.  And 
we  might  almost  fancy  ourselves  at  home,  were 
it  not  that  the  eyes  of  strangers  are  upon  us,  and 
we  miss  the  dear  familiar  faces .  that  first  taught 
the  infant  heart  to  love. 

Here,  have  we  clustered  around  the  knees  of  a 
mother  and  drank  rich  instruction  from  her  pious 
lips,  and  offered  up  the  morning  and  the  evening 
prayer,  and  lisped  our  hymn  of  praise,  while  she 
ever  strove  to  impress  the  golden  rule  upon  the 
young  and  tender  minds  committed  to  her  care ; 
and  her  example  was  ever  that  of  a  consistent 
Christian. 

How  vividly  comes  up  before  the  eye  of  Mem 
ory,  the  forms  of  the  aged  members  of  the  family  ; 
for  there  were  an  uncle  and  two  aunts  of  my  father 
\vho  were  never  married,  that  took  him  at  the 
early  age  of  two  years,  educated  him  and  gave 
him  the  homestead  for  his  patrimony  ;  and  at  the 
time  of  my  birth  the  snow  of  many  winters  rested 
upon  their  heads,  and  the  infirmities  of  age  were 
upon  them. 

It  was  their  delight  to  watch  our  childish  sports, 
listen  to  our  innocent  prattle,  and  strive  to  direct 
our  young  footsteps  in  the  paths  of  virtue.  They 
have  passed  away  like  the  shadows  of  a  passing 
cloud.  Almost  my  first  recollections  of  death  are 
associated  with  that  of  the  aged  man.  He  had 
been  sick  about  four  days  when  we  were  called 


10  REMINISCENCES. 

to  stand  by  his  bedside  and  witness  his  departure. 
He  smiled  upon  the  dear  little  brother,  mother 
held  in  her  arms,  shook  him  by  the  hand,  gave 
us  all  a  parting  glance  ;  the  film  of  death  then 
gathered  upon  his  eyes,  a  convulsive  shudder  ran 
over  his  frame,  and  a  deathly  paleness  rested 
upon  his  countenance,  filling  our  young  hearts 
with  wonder  and  dismay.  As  we  felt  the  marble 
coldness  of  his  stiffened  limbs,  and  saw  him  borne 
away  to  the  silent  grave,  WTC  learned  the  first  les 
son  from  the  pale  messenger,  and  felt  the  awful 
void  that  his  presence  creates  in  the  family  circle, 
and  which  we  have  since  been  called  so  often  to 
experience.  He  died  in  the  very  room  where  we 
first  opened  our  eyes  upon  the  light. 

It  is  a  large  gloomy  looking  room.  The  two 
windows  looking  out  upon  the  north,  and  a  door 
opening  out  upon  the  level  field,  covered  with  its 
carpet  of  green,  intersected  by  neither  shrub  nor 
trees.  The  coating  of  paint  is  changed,  and  the 
walls  neatly  papered,  which  is  the  only  change  it 
has  undergone. 

Adjacent  to  this  is  the  east  bedroom,  one  win 
dow  looking  out  upon  the  north,  and  one  upon 
the  little  garden  at  the  east  end  of  the  house. 
This  room,  for  many  years,  was  our  lodging  room, 
where  we  sought — 

"Tired  nature's  sweet  restorer  balmy  sleep," 

and  lost  ourselves  in  the  world  of  dreams.  Many, 
very  many,  were  the  waking  dreams  that  filled 
the  imagination  as  the  map  of  life  lay  spread  out 


REMINISCENCES.  17 

before  fancy's  witching  gaze,  and  hope  illumina 
ted  it  with  her  brilliant  rainbow  dyes.  No  waves 
of  passion  or  disappointment  moved  its  surface. 
But,  oh,  how  different  has  been  the  reality  ! 

Crossing  the  small  entry  opposite  the  kitchen 
is  a  large  room,  formerly  occupied  by  the  old  peo 
ple.  The  same  change  is  visible  in  this  as  in  the 
other  rooms.  Here,  day  after  day,  sat  our  aged 
aunt,  reading  the  word  of  God  or  her  favorite 
hymns,  and  seeking  preparation  for  death  (for 
she  was  fourscore  and  ten  years  old),  and  had  been 
a  member  of  the  church  of  Christ  from  her  nine 
teenth  year,  spending  a  long  life  to  his  honor  and 
glory.  It  was  the  winter  of  the  year,  but  a  mild 
day,  when  on  returning  from  school  we  were 
summoned  to  her  bedside.  The  feeble  lamp  of 
life  was  flickering  in  the  socket,  and  the  pulses 
of  the  aged  woman  stood  still.  Her  spirit  passed 
quietly  from  earth,  to  enter  into  the  presence  of 
God  who  gave  it.  She  fell  like  a  shock  of  corn 
fully  ripe,  at  the  age  of  ninety-four  years.  There 
was  no  struggle  ;  wearied  nature  resigned  her  bur 
den  without  resistance,  and  the  countenance  was 
pleasant  in  death.  She  was  borne  to  the  grave 
yard  and  laid  by  the  side  of  her  dear  brother, 
and  thus  they  were  again  united  in  the  place  of 
graves  ;  and  again  there  were  vacant  places  in 
our  family  circle,  for  many  had  been  the  atten 
tions  we  were  obliged  to  bestow  upon  our  aged 
relative,  for  she  had  been  unable  to  walk  for  sev 
eral  years. 

In  this  apartment  two  windows  opened  to  the 
south,  and  one  at  the  west  end  of  the  house,  look- 


18  REMINISCENCES. 

ing  out  upon  the  woods ;  on  the  north  side  three 
doors  opened,  one  into  a  bedroom  with  one  west 
window,  one  into  a  pantry  or  dairy  room,  where 
stood  long  rows  of  pans  of  milk  covered  with 
golden  cream,  and  tempting  cheeses  arrayed  the 
shelves.  Here  there  is  slight  alteration,  except 
ing  the  shelves  and  ceiling  have  changed  their 
snowy  whiteness  for  a  coating  of  blue  paint,  and 
instead  of  a  dairy  room,  it  is  converted  into  a 
common  pantry.  The  other  door  led  into  the 
winter  cellar,  where  we  used  to  go  for  the  nice 
apples,  which  formed  the  usual  accompaniment  of 
a  winter  evening.  Oh,  those  pleasant  evenings  ! 
what  heeded  we  that  the  wintry  storm  raged 
without  ?  Our  evening  meal  wras  always  dis 
patched,  and  the  household  duties  all  performed 
before  the  evening  shadows  fell  around  us.  The 
fire  burned  brightly  upon  the  clean  swept  hearth, 
shedding  a  cheerful  glow  over  the  room,  while 
warming  by  its  blaze  stood  a  large  dish  of  red 
and  golden  apples,  temptingly  arranged.  Before 
the  fire  stood  a  small  round  table,  round  which 
the  younger  members  of  the  family  were  seated, 
braiding  straw,  while  some  one  read  aloud  from 
some  useful  or  entertaining  book ;  or  we  pursued 
our  favorite  studies,  and  prepared  the  school  les 
son  for  the  coming  day  (for  we  could  braid  and 
study  at  the  same  time). 

How  profitable  and  how  pleasant  were  those 
evenings !  As  I  look  back  upon  them,  through 
the  long  lapse  of  years  that  have  passed  away, 
and  recall  each  familiar  face  and  tone,  I  feel  that 
those  hours  wre  among  the  happiest  of  my  life. 


REMINISCENCES.  19 

Many  of  those  dear  forms  have  passed  away  from 
earth  forever.  The  dear  mother,  who  presided 
over  us  with  so  much  affection,  mingling  in  our 
pleasures  and  soothing  our  pains,  has  finished  her 
course  upon  earth  and  gone  to  her  reward ;  but 
may  the  good  seed  sown  in  the  hearts  of  her  chil 
dren  spring  up  and  bear  fruit  to  eternal  life.  Al 
though  her  lips  are  now  silent  in  death,  she  still 
speaks  to  us,  she  still  lives  embalmed  in  the  hearts 
of  her  children.  Two  dear  brothers  that  enlivened 
those  cheerful  evenings,  by  acting  their  part  in 
the  drama  of  life,  have  passed  away,  to 

"  That  bournu  from  which  no  traveller  e'er  returns," 

and  their  voices  are  heard  no  more  upon  earth. 

But,  usually,  ere  the  family  clock  that  ticked  in 
the  corner  of  the  room  struck  nine,  all  had  retired 
to  rest  and  all  was  silent,  save  the  ticking  of  the 
clock  or  the  howling  of  the  wintry  storm. 

Deaths  in.  our  neighborhood  were  not  of  very 
common  occurrence,  and  used  to  fill  our  young 
hearts  with  dismay  ;  and  for  many  long  weeks  I 
used  to  count  the  number  of  nights  the  new  oc 
cupant  of  a  grave  had  slept  in  it,  and  shudder  as 
I  thought  of  all  the  gloom,  the  darkness  and  the 
silence  of  the  narrow  house  ;  and  felt  sad  when  I 
reflected  that  all  men  must  die.  Faith  then  had 
not  lifted  her  trusting  eye  beyond  the  portals  of  the 
tomb,  or  illuminated  its  confines  by  the  glorious 
light  of  the  gospel.  And  when  in  the  winter  of 
1816  a  fatal  fever  raged,  and  the  angel  of  death 
flapped  his  broad  wings  over  our  little  village,  and 


20  REMINISCENCES. 

one  after  another  was  cut  suddenly  down  by  his 
stealthy  darts,  we  could  hardly  realize  that  it  was 
directed  by  the  hand  of  a  merciful  God,  and,  col 
lected  together  in  a  little  group,  wondered,  in  our 
childish  innocence,  "  who  would  go  next?" 

Here,  upon  this  door-step,  have  we  sat  for  hours, 
in  all  suitable  seasons  of  the  year,  looking  out 
upon  the  prospect,  and  contemplating  the  chang 
ing  seasons,  or  the  alternate  sun  and  shade  that 
rested  upon  the  face  of  nature.  Often  have  we 
wandered  forth,  while  the  dew  was  yet  upon  the 
grass,  to  gather  a  basket  of  the  large  red  cheeked 
peaches  that  had  fallen  from  the  trees  during  the 
night.  Near  by  stood  a  noble  pear  tree,  laden 
with  rich  orange  pears,  covering  the  ground  be 
neath  with  its  golden  treasures,  while  a  contiguous 
apple  tree  mingled  its  store  of  bright  red  apples 
in  rich  profusion.  O,  it  was  a  delicious  blending 
of  autumn's  garnered  store,  showered  upon  the  lap 
of  Mother  Nature,  spread  out  temptingly  to  the 
eyes  of  her  weary  children.  But  the  trees  have 
departed  with  the  "  dark  brown  years,"  that  have 
flung  their  dim  shadows  over  them — nor  root,  nor 
branch  remains. 

A  few  years  passed,  and  by  one  of  the  unfore 
seen  changes  that  occur  in  the  lives  of  business 
men,  we  were  obliged  to  relinquish  our  childhood 
home,  and  go  forth  to  try  the  rougher  usage  of  the 
world  in  a  land  of  strangers.  Sad  were  the  feel 
ings  that  filled  our  young  hearts,  as  we  went  forth 
from  the  dear  place,  with  which  was  associated  all 
the  earliest  recollections  of  life,  and  the  endearing 
ideas  of  home.  The  evening  before  our  departure, 


REMINISCENCES.  21 

we  ascended  the  top  of  the  highest  hill  that  over 
looked  our  little  villa,  accompanied  by  our  young 
schoolmates,  to  watch  the  declining  rays  of  the  set 
ting  sun,  and  promised  eternal  friendship  to  each 
other.  It  was  Sabbath  day — a  calm,  delightful 
Sabbath  day — that  was  now  closing  upon  us ;  and 
as  the  sun  finished  his  journey  across  the  horizon, 
and  sank  behind  the  far-off  western  hills,  methinks 
the  sacred  tranquility  that  reigned  around  seemed 
to  be  whispering  to  the  troubled  spirit,  "Peace, 
be  still."  But  could  we,  with  our  youthful  hearts 
weighed  down  by  this  great  grief,  could  we  heed 
the  gentle  whispers?  surely  not;  and  we  felt  that 
like  our  first  parents,  we  were  about  to  be  driven 
from  Paradise.  We  sat  conversing  upon  the  past, 
and  forming  plans  for  the  future, 

"  Till  twilight  grey  had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad." 

Descending  the  hill  we  sought  our  homes,  and 
early  the  following  morning  found  us  pursuing  our 
way  to  a  land  of  strangers,  leaving  behind  us 
home,  friends,  and  the  burying  place  of  our  fathers, 
which  we  had  ever  looked  upon  as  our  last  resting 
place. 

While  the  waves  of  time  have  borne  year  after 
year  away,  each  one  replete  with  change,  we  have 
been  tossing  upon  the  stream  till  we  again  stand 
in  the  same  place  from  which  we  then  departed, 
and  while  the  grief  of  that  hour  is  fresh  in  the 
memory,  we  will  again  turn  sadly  away  from  the 
spot  teeming  with  so  many  remembrances,  and 
where  were  instilled  the  first  principles  of  virtue 
and  religion.  O,  may  these  remain  and  grow 


22  REMINISCENCES. 

"  brighter  and  brighter  unto  the  perfect  day/' 
while  all  mutable  things  decay.  Dear  old  house, 
farewell ;  these  eyes  may  never  again  behold  you ; 
these  feet  never  again  cross  your  threshold  ;  but 
while  reason  remains,  the  memory  of  these  haunts 
will  be  tenderly  cherished.  And  so  we  pass  again 
from  the  spot  with  an  aching  heart,  and  leave  it 
to  the  possession  of  strangers. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    OLD    SCHOOL   HOUSE. 

But  while  we  yet  linger  on  this  sacred  spot,  we 
will  enter  into  the  school  house  where  our  young 
footsteps  first  attempted  to  climb  the  hill  of 
Science.  The  outward  appearance  is  the  same* 
A  pretty  one  story  and  a  half  building,  painted 
yellow  with  white  trimmings,  and  a  chocolate 
colored  door,  which  is  reached  by  two  stone  steps. 
You  are  then  admitted  into  a  large  hall,  accom 
modated  with  shelves  for  the  convenience  of  the 
scholars,  and  as  we  pass  through  this  and  enter  the 
school-room,  we  feel  almost  a  child  again.  But 
we  see  at  a  glance  that  our  dear  old  teacher  does 
not  occupy  the  desk,  and  it  is  a  stranger's  voice 
that  strikes  upon  the  ear.  As  we  glance  at  the 
well-filled  seats,  we  readily  perceive  there  is  not 


HEMINISCENCES.  23 

one  of  all  the  group,  no,  not  one,  that  occupied 
those  seats  when  we  were  scholars  there.     But  we 
will  sit  calmly  down  upon  the  teacher's  desk  and 
recall  the  dim  shadowy  forms  of  the  past,  the  by 
gone  past.     The  breeze  that  passes  through  the 
open  window  and  fans  the  brow,  might  be  mistaken 
for  the  same  playful  zephyr  that  sported  with  our 
own  silken  locks  in  childhood,  as  we  stood  before 
this  same  open  window.     The  monotonous  hum  of 
the  school-room  seems  the  same  and  the  drowsy 
buzz  of  the  summer  fly  as  it  floats  on  azure  wings 
brings  to  the  ear  a  well  remembered  sound,  and 
we  press  our  hand  tightly  upon  our  eyes  and  try 
to  think  we  are  living  over  again  years  that  are 
passed.     It  will  not  do,   there   is  a  change — we 
must  acknowledge  that  change.     The  teacher  who 
so  long  presided  in  this  place,  was  a  stern  man,  of 
commanding  figure,  with  a  high,  broad  forehead 
and  piercing  black  eyes,  coal  black  hair  and  beard, 
with  rather  a  handsome   countenance,    although 
nothing  could  ever  provoke  a  smile  upon  it  in 
school  hours,  and  he  governed  his  pupils  more  by 
fear  than  love.     But  the  lesson  must  be  perfectly 
committed  and  correctly  recited,  or  the  offending 
culprit  must  fall  under  his  severe  displeasure,  and 
this  was  a  situation  that  few  in  the  school  were 
willing  to  be  placed  in.     I  have  heard  of  this 
man's  death,   but  in  what  manner  or  where   I 
know  not ;  but  many  are  the  lessons  I  have  heard 
fall  from  his  lips  which  still  live  in  my  heart — 
have  had  their  impress  upon  the  life,  and  will  con 
tinue  to  exist  through  the  boundless  ages  of  eter 
nity.    And  now  that  the  thoughtlessness  of  youth 


24  REMINISCENCES. 

has  passed  away,  here,  upon  this  spot,  would  I 
offer  a  grateful  tribute  to  his  memory.  Many 
others,  too,  occupied  this  place,  of  whose  destiny 
I  am  entirely  ignorant,  but  yet  remember  them 
with  much  affection. 

One  female  teacher  in  particular,  under  whose 
instruction  I  sat  six  summers  in  succession.  Then 
she  was  young  and  healthful,  and  happy  in  the 
bosom  of  her  family  ;  but  now  all  have  passed 
away  save  this  one  surviving  branch.  She  alone 
remains  of  her  family,  in  feeble  health,  and  with 
that  depression  of  spirits  incident  upon  her  situa 
tion. 

On  the  low  seat  next  to  the  desk,  used  to  sit 
rather  a  fragile  child,  with  bright  red  hair  and 
deep  blue  eyes  that  had  a  depth  of  meaning  in  their 
earnest  gaze.  Her  seat  was  vacant,  and  we  heard 
that  Elizabeth  Ann  was  sick  with  typhus  fever. 
We  visited  her  in  her  chamber.  She  lay  tossing 
from  side  to  side,  upon  her  bed,  even  gnawing  her 
fingers  for  very  pain.  I  gazed  upon  her  with  pity, 
and  they  told  me  she  must  die.  I  had  seen  the 
aged  pass  away,  but  never  the  young.  And  mus 
ing  long  and  sadly  upon  this  event,  I  sought  my 
home,  and  spent  a  restless  night,  repeating  often 
the  childish  hymn,  commencing, 

"  I  in  the  burying  place  may  see 
Graves  shorter  there  than  I." 

But  the  long  night  passed  away  with  its  sad  pre 
sages,  and  the  rising  sun  peeped  between  the  thick 
clustering  leaves  and  flowers  of  the  morning  glo 
ries  that  shaded  the  window,  and  diffused  light 


REMINISCENCES.  25 

and  radiance  upon  the  joyous  landscape.  The 
birds  awoke  to  new  melody,  and  in  the  gladness 
that  surrounded  me  I  almost  forgot  the  impres 
sions  of  the  'previous  evening.  I  arose,  though 
slightly  refreshed,  repeating  as  I  did  so, 

"  So  like  the  sun  may  I  fulfil 
The  duties  of  the  day." 

Almost  the  first  intelligence  that  greeted  my  ear 
was  the  death  of  Elizabeth  Ann  Prince.  While 
the  shadows  of  that  night  still  lingered,  her  pure 
spirit  had  passed  away,  and  for  the  first  time  I 
realized  more  fully  than  I  had  ever  done  before, 
that  youth  is  no  protection  from  death.  I  saw  her 
in  her  small  coffin,  and  felt  the  marble  coldness  of 
her  pale  brow,  and  as  I  saw  the  coffin  descend  into 
the  narrow  grave,  I  turned  sadly  away  with  a 
grief-stricken,  and  perchance  a  better  heart.  But 
for  many  months  1  could  tell  the  exact  number 
of  nights  she  had  lain  buried  in  the  silent  grave. 

The  next  morning  as  I  took  my  seat  with  a 
favorite  companion,  in  the  one  behind  that  formerly 
occupied  by  her,  I  almost  started  as  I  fancied  that 
her  face  was  upturned  to  mine,  and  those  blue 
orbs  rested  upon  me. 

The  dear  friend  "that  sat  with  me,  has  too,  passed 
away,  "  and  the  places  that  knew  her  once  upon 
earth,  now  know  her  no  more  forever."  Rosa  was 
an  orphan,  having  lost  both  parents ;  she  was  the 
youngest  of  four  sisters,  had  an  amiable  disposi 
tion,  and  was  an  affectionate  friend.  She  was 
married  to  a  wealthy  man,  and  became  the  moth- 

Bl 


26  REMINISCENCES. 

er  of  several  children  ;  but  the  destroyer  came  and 
bore  her  from  her  dear  family  to  the  silent  church 
yard,  and  placed  her  beneath  a  grassy  mound  be 
side  her  father  and  her  mother.     Sweet  is  thy  mem 
ory,  friend  of  my  early  clays,  and  very  pleasant 
were  the  hours  we  spent  together  :  but  they  have 
passed  away  with  the  things  that  were,  and  like 
the  rose  leaves  that  falling  fill  the  air  with  their 
perfume,  so  the  fragrance  of  those  hours  still  lives. 
Next  to  Rosa  Whittier  sat  Julia  Balcolrn,  with 
saddened  expression  of  countenance  and  large  deep 
blue  eyes  that  gazed  upon  you  with  a  deeper  ex 
pression  of  melancholly  in  their  glances  than  is 
usual  to  the  merry  age  of  childhood,  and  elicited 
your  sympathy  ere  you  knew  her  history.     Julia 
was  a  cripple.     She  was  drawn  to  school  by  an 
older  sister  with  rosy  cheeks,  bright  flashing  black 
eyes,   and  a  sprightly  animated  countenance,  and 
carried  into  the  school-room  in  the  arms  of  her 
teacher,   or  some  of  the  older  scholars.     And  so 
she  came,  year  after  year,  mingling  with  the  merry 
group.     But  where  is  she  now  ?  yon  little  mound 
of  heaped  up  earth  covers  her  remains,  and  a  nar 
row  marble  slab  tells  the  place  of  her  repose,  and 
we  can  but  hope  she  who  was   denied  the  privi 
lege  of  walking  on  earth  may  now  soar  on  angel's 
wings. 

As  we  contemplate  the  deprivations  of  one  sit 
uated  as  she  was,  we  can  but  realize  the  blessing 
of  having  "  the  common  use  of  our  own  limbs." 
This  dear  child  was  obliged  to  crawl  from  place 
to  place  after  her  more  favored  companions,  drag- 


REMINISCENCES.  27 

ging  her  useless  perished  limbs  behind  her.  But 
he  who  careth  for  us  knew  what  was  best  for  her, 
and  we  cannot  doubt  his  infinite  wisdom. 

It  were  vain  to  endeavor  to  trace  the  destinies 
of  all  who  used  to  sit  with  us,  in  this  favorite 
place.  Many  have  gone  down  to  death — many 
still  live  on  the  same  premises  where  they  first 
inhaled  the  breath  of  life,  and  some  have  gone 
forth  into  the  world  to  fulfil  a  darker  destiny  on 
the  broad  ocean  of  human  life,  that  is  ever  toss 
ing  its  tumultuous  waves  before  the  tempestuous 
winds  of  fortune,  and  have  been  ship-wrecked  upon 
the  quick-sands  of  vice  and  dissipation.  The 
shady  side  of  the  picture  has  been  presented  ;  but 
those  were  bright  and  joyous  days,  and  our  school 
yard  resounded  with  the  merry  laugh  and  frolic 
some  mirth  of  childhood ;  yet  they  leave  not  that 
abiding  impression  upon  the  mind  that  character 
izes  incidents  of  a  more  sombre  hue.  But  we  will 
leave  the  dear  old  school  house  with  all  its  treas 
ured  memories  that  link  it  with  the  past,  and 
pursue  our  way  in  some  other  direction.  It  is 
hard  to  stop  where  so  many  images  crowd  upon 
the  mind,  and  come  stealing  upon  us  in  the  shape 
of  old  familiar  friends  with  whom  we  have  walked 
side  by  side,  day  after  day ;  but  dear  familiar 
scenes,  adieu. 

B2 


28  REMINISCENCES. 

CHAPTER  IV, 

THE    GRAVE   YARD. 

Let  us  wander  by  this  winding  road  to  the  place 
of  graves,  the  great  charnel  house  where  so  many, 
who  were  formerly  actors  on  life's  busy  stage,  have 
laid  them  down  in  the  sleep  of  death.  Many  are 
the  changes  that  meet  the  eye  as  we  pass  along, 
but  there  are  many  traces  left  that  awaken  mem 
ories  of  past  friends  and  past  years.  Here  are 
the  dear  old  trees  under  which  we  have  played ; 
the  rocks  upon  which  we  have  sat,  and  the  stream 
on  which  we  have  sailed  ;  but  which  now  is  greatly 
augmented  in  size,  as  it  is  now  an  outlet  to  the 
large  reservoir  of  water,  into  which  the  meadow 
above  has  been  converted. 

Crossing  the  bridge  and  ascending  the  hill,  let 
us  enter  the  grave  yard,  and  contemplate  the 
change  that  rolling  years  have  made  in  this  spot ; 

"  Our  fathers,  where  are  they  ?'' 

Methinks  the  stones  at  our  feet  cry  out — "  All  flesh 
is  grass." 

This  is  an  ancient  burial  place  ;  and  as  we  look 
upon  the  dates  of  the  headstones,  how  forcibly 
do  we  feel  "  one  generation  passeth  away  and  an 
other  generation  corneth."  Many  of  the  monu 
ments  have  ceased  to  be  a  memorial,  having  crum 
bled  away,  and  the  inscriptions  become  entirely 
obliterated  by  the  thick  covering  of  green  moss 


REMINISCENCES.  29 

that  has  gathered  upon  them.  Is  not  this  a  les 
son  that  is  calculated  to  humble  the  pride  of  man? 
But  we  will  pause  by  the  graves  of  the  dear 
uncle  and  aunt,  whose  remains  we  saw  deposited 
here  many  years  ago,  when  our  young  footsteps 
bounded  with  all  the  elasticity  of  childhood.  But 
though  sweeping  years  have  borne  away  the  hal 
cyon  days  of  childhood,  the  golden  days  of  youth, 
and  the  sobered  and  subdued  period  of  middle  life, 
and  our  sun  has  passed  its  meridian  and  is  verging 
rapidly  towards  its  setting,  still  this  grief  comes 
back  again  with  all  its  first  freshness.  Here  for 
the  first  time  these  eyes  looked  into  an  untenanted 
grave  ;  for  the  first  time  saw  the  coffin  let  down 
into  the  "  dark  and  narrow  house,"  and  heard  the 
hollow  sound  as  the  earth  fell  upon  it — and  deep 
was  the  impression  that  was  made  upon  the  child 
ish  memory,  and  so  faithful  is  she  to  her  trust  that 
at  this  moment,  when  standing  upon  this  spot,  she 
brings  it  back  again,  untarnished  by  the  long  years 
that  have  passed  away.  The  little  heaped  up 
mound  that  covered  their  remains  has  sunk  to  a 
level  with  its  kindred  dust,  and  the  inscriptions 
upon  the  headstones,  though  legible,  are  much 
defaced.  Can  it  be  that  here  are  the  dear  forms 
whose  voices  I  heard,  upon  wrhose  knees  I  sat,  and 
who  led  me  by  the  hand,  day  after  day  ?  Even 
so.  Were  it  not  for  revelation,  "that  light  and 
immortality  are  brought  to  light"  by  the  gospel, 
how  dark  would  be  the  grave  ;  who  could  fathom 
its  mysterious  confines,  or  penetrate  its  darkness  ? 
But  the  Saviour  has  shed  a  radiance  around  it,  and 

B3 


30  REMINISCENCES. 

assured  us  "the  graves  shall  give  up  their  dead; 
that  we  shall  all  come  forth  and  be  judged  accord 
ing  to  the  deeds  done  in  the  body."  Happy  they, 
who  learn  this  most  important  lesson,  and  live  up 
to  the  great  principles  it  inculcates. 

Methinks  the  murmur  of  the  summer  breeze,  as 
it  sighs  through  the  waving  branches  of  the  weep 
ing  willow,  as  it  stands  drooping  over  an  adjoin 
ing  grave,  seems  the  gentle  whisper  of  departed 
spirits,  wooing  us  to  the  skies.  As  we  glance  far 
off  in  the  distance  from  this  elevated  spot,  we  see 
the  toil  and  turmoil  of  life — its  struggles,  cares  and 
disappointments,  and  then  contemplating  the  scene 
around  us,  we  feel  that,  this  must  be  the  end 
of  all  who  live.  Here  lie  those  for  whom  we 
sought  in  vain  in  the  places  where  we  formerly 
knew  them.  Here  repose  the  remains  of  our  fam 
ily  physician,  who,  for  many  years,  was  called  in 
all  cases  of  sickness,  and  was  like  a  brother  in  the 
family.  By  his  side  sleeps  his  amiable  wife  ;  as 
we  look  upon  their  graves  for  the  first  time,  we 
remember  them  as  they  were  in  life,  and  heave  a 
sigh  to  their  memory. 

Here  lies  a  school  companion  who  died  at  a 
very  early  age  ;  we  had  won  prizes  and  received 
our  little  books  from  the  hands  of  our  dear  teach 
er,  and  that  is  my  only  recollection  of  him.  His 
seat  was  vacant,  and  they  told  me  he  was  dead  ; 
but  then  I  knew  nothing  of  death. 

Here,  too,  are  tho  graves  of  Elizabeth  Ann 
Prince,  Julia  Balcolm,  the  poor  cripple,  and  many 
others,  who  have  sat  with  me  in  the  dear  old  school 


REMINISCENCES.  31 

house.  One  in  particular  strikes  the  mind  with 
peculiar  solemnity.  It  is  the  grave  of  Edward 
Davis  ;  he  was  a  young  man  of  superior  talents, 
uncommon  beauty  and  prepossessing  manners. 
He  was  rich  in  this  world's  goods,  and  married 
an  amiable  young  lady,  in  all  respects  his  equal ; 
they  lived  happily  together  several  years,  and  had 
several  children, ''but  sickness  came  like  a  blight 
upon  him,  and  he  was  soon  conveyed  to  the 
silent  tomb,  leaving  his  wife  and  children  to  mourn 
his  loss. 

Here,  side  by  side,  are  the  graves  of  an  entire 
household,  consisting  of  the  maternal  grandmoth 
er,  two  sisters  of  the  father,  the  father  and  mother, 
and  seven  children,  with  the  wife  of  one  of  the 
sons.  Not  twelve  rods  from  their  own  door  they 
sleep  side  by  side — that  many  voiced  household, 
in  the  silence  of  death.  No  voice  breaks  the  still 
ness  ;  no  words  of  love  are  interchanged  ;  but 
their  dust  shall  mingle  together  till  the  morning 
of  the  resurrection,  teaching  an  impressive  lesson 
to  those  that  stand  by  their  graves  and  read  the 
inscriptions  upon  their  tombstones. 

Here  is  buried  the  dear  old  deacon  and  his  wife, 
by  whose  bedside  we  stood  when  his  forehead  was 
wet  with  the  damp  dews  of  death,  and  his  eye 
lighted  up  by  faith,  seemed  to  scan  the  glories  of 
the  upper  world,  and  he  felt  it  was  "far  better  to 
depart  and  be  with  Christ."  And  even  then  came, 
*'  let  me  die  the  death  of  the  righteous,  and  let  my 
last  end  be  like  his."  His  devoted,  pious  wife  soon 
followed  him,  and  we  feel,  as  we  look  upon  their 


32  XEMINISCENCES. 

graves,  there  is  rest  in  Heaven.  At  their  feet  Tie 
children,  grand-children  and  gyeat-grand-childreB. 
Clara  Everett  was  a  promising  young  girl,  cut 
down  at  the  early  age  of  nineteen.  She  was  left 
an  orphan  at  the  age  of  nine  months,  her  father 
dying  suddenly,  and  her  mother  a  few  weeks  after, 
with  consumption.  She  was  tenderly  cared  for  by 
her  maternal  grand-parents  and  a  maiden  aunt, 
well  educated  and  had  commenced  teaching,  when 
she  was  seized  suddenly  with  an  alarming  fever, 
which  in  a  few  short  days,  was  terminated  by  death. 
They  bore  her  to  the  resting  place  with  many 
tears,  and  placed  her  beside  those  dear  parents 
from  whom  she  was  so  early  separated.  Many 
here,  that  lived  a  life  of  dissipation,  have  gone 
down  to  fill  a  drunkard's  grave  ; 

"  But  we'll  tread  lightly  on  the  ashes  of  the  dead." 

Why  should  we  uncover  the  frailties  of  poor  mor 
tality,  unless  to  hold  them  up  as  beacon  lights  to 
the  rising  generation  ?  and  for  this  purpose  we 
would  take  the  living  example. 

Here  is  buried  an  aged  woman,  who  lived  in  pov 
erty.  She  had  the  shaking  palsy,  and  it  was  with 
great  difficulty  she  could  perform  any  labor ;  she 
was  assisted  by  the  town  and  the  charities  of  the 
neighborhood.  She  had  one  daughter,  who  was 
an  invalid  many  years,  and  dependant  upon  the- 
care  of  the  feeble  mother.  The  children  of  the 
village  were  the  willing  bearers  of  many  comforts 
to  these  poor  people ;  and  even  now  seems  to 
come  the  well  remembered  "  tell  your  mother  I 


REMINISCENCES.  33 

am  much  obliged  to  her,"  from  the  pale  lips  that 
lie  buried  beneath  the  sod.  The  daughter  is  bur 
ied  by  her  side,  and  methinks  they  sleep  as  sweetly 
as  the  more  wealthy  citizen,  beneath  a  more  splen 
did  monument.  All  here  meet  upon  a  common 
level — the  old,  the  young,  the  rich,  the  poor,  the 
bond  and  free,  for  death  is  no  respecter  of  persons. 

Here,  too,  rests  a  young  physician,  who  sup 
plied  the  place  of  the  old  one.  His  career  was 
like  the  meteor  flash,  emitting  its  brilliant  rays 
fora  season,  and  then  was  shrouded  in  death's  dark 
night. 

As  we  stand  upon  this  spot  and  contemplate  it 
as  it  was  when  we  last  stood  upon  it,  we  feel  that 
here  has  been  the  greatest  change  of  any  place 
yet  visited.  Here  we  meet  many  a  name  familiar 
to  the  ear,  and  a  form  familiar  to  the  eye  starts 
into  life,  and  treads  again  its  mazy  scenes.  Many 
monuments  are  erected  to  entire  strangers,  and 
this  is  our  first  meeting  with  them.  Here  the  in 
fant  of  a  few  days  lies  buried,  just  tasting  the  cup 
of  life,  he  turned  sickening  away,  and  yielding  it 
up,  soared  away  with  the  angel  band  to  the  realms 
of  bliss. 

But  ere  we  leave  the  yard,  let  us  visit  the  rest 
ing  place  of  the  beautiful  Clarinda  Robinson,  who 
died  at  the  early  age  of  nineteen.  She  had  ever 
enjoyed  undiminished  health.  But  soon,  oh,  how 
soon,  the  rose  of  health  faded  upon  her  cheek  ;  her 
sparkling  eye  lost  its  lustre,  and  the  animated 
form,  stiffened  in  death,  was  laid  away  in  its  silent 
chamber.  At  her  feet  lie  two  beautiful  nieces, 
B5 


34  REMINISCENCES. 

called,  too,  iii  the  morning  of  their  days  to  go  and 
make  their  beds  with  her.  Sadly  did  the  bereaved 
mother  mourn  their  loss  ;  but  the  pale  messenger 
came  for  her  too,  in  a  few  weary  years,  and  she 
joined  them  in  the  pale  realms  of  shade. 

Here,  too,  sleeps  the  young  wife,  called  soon 
away  from  the  husband  of  her  youth.  Consump 
tion,  like  a  worm  in  the  bud,  preyed  upon  the 
damask  of  ner  cheek,  dried  up  the  fountain  of  her 
life,  and  bore  her  triumphantly,  another  victim  of 
his  power.  The  old  sexton,  too,  who  from  time 
immemorial,  had  been 

"  The  maker  of  the  dead  man's  bed," 

has  laid  down  his  mattock  and  his  spade,  and  filled 
a  grave  prepared  by  other  hands.  At  his  feet  lies 
a  lovely  daughter,  snatched  suddenly  away,  ere 
the  bloom  of  youth  had  passed,  and  almost  with 
out  a  moment's  warning,  leaving  a  husband  and  a 
dear  little  child,  too  young  to  feel  its  loss. 

But  while  we  have  yet  lingered,  the  sun  has 
finished  his  journey,  and  hid  his  bright  beams  be 
hind  the  curtain  of  the  west,  and  already  have  the 
shadows  of  coming  twilight  gathered  around  us, 
and  the  white  marble  slabs,  dimly  seen  in  its 
shadows,  assume  strange,  mysterious  shapes,  and 
seem  almost  like  moving  things  of  life,  while  the 
darker  slate  are  lost  to  view. 

We  will  sit  a  moment  on  the  grave  of  our  dear 
old  aunt.  This  was  the  spot  designated  for  our 
family  burying  place  ;  but  it  is  now  filled  with 
strangers.  We  will  now  leave  this  spot,  to 


REMINISCENCES.  35 

toss  again  upon  the  waves  of  time  ;  but  may  the 
lesson  here  learned  go  with  us,  and  prepare  us  for 
the  day  when  the  heart  and  flesh  shall  fail,  and 
we  must  change  this  for  another  life,  ever  remem 
bering, 

"  That  life  is  long  that  answers  life's  great  eud." 
B6 


3IIDNIGHT  SCENES, 


MIDNIGHT  SCENES  ; 

OR,    PICTURES    OF    HUMAN    LIFE. 

PICTURE  No.  I. 

THE  midnight  moon  shone  drear  and  cold, 

Upon  a  stately  tow'r  ; 
Whose  ramparts  high  and  turrets  bold 

Bespoke  a  lordly  pow'r. 

The  dancing  waters  flash'd  and  gleam'd 

Beneath  her  silver  ray  ; 
And  gently  fell  her  placid  beam, 
On  tower  and  turret  gray. 

And  softly  came  the  silent  dew, 

And  fell  with  gentle  pow'r, 
Sparkling  like  gems,  or  diamonds  fair, 

On  trembling  leaf  and  flow'r. 

Fair  night  hung  out  her  golden  lamps, 

In  her  blue  chambers  high  ; 
And  earth,  all  gemmed,  in  their  pure  light, 

Lay  lovely  to  the  eye. 

But  look  within  those  costly  halls, 

Where  waxen  tapers  gleam, 
And  crimson  curtains'  silken  folds 

Exclude  the  moon's  bright  beams 


MIDNIGHT  SCENES.  37 

A  queenly  matron  mournful  sits, 

In  all  her  jewelled  pride; 
The  costly  diamond  on  her  breast, 

Its  anguish  cannot  hide. 

The  angel  of  the  raven  wing 

His  sable  plume  waves  there, 
And  writhing  on  his  silken  couch, 

Lies  stretch'd  the  only  heir. 

She  feels  how  vain  a  thing  is  wealth, 

To  ease  that  lab'ring  breath, — 
Or  bribe,  in  his  resistless  course, 

The  tyrant  monster,  death. 

The  hours  of  night  passed  slow  away, 

AVhen  brightly  rose  the  sun  ; 
The  boy  in  quiet  beauty  lay — 

The  fearful  work  was  done. 

The  angel  had  performed  his  part, 

And  back  to  heav'n  had  flown  ; 
The  mother  with  a  bursting  heart, 

Sat  weeping  now,  alone. 

She  rising,  smoothed  his  golden  hair, 

One  ringlet  gently  shred  ; 
And  then,  within  a  costly  shroud, 

She  wrapped  her  silent  dead. 

And  folded  light  the  snowy  screen, 

That  hid  from  every  eye 
Those  features,  beautiful  in  death, 

And  marble  forehead  high. 

But  hark!  she  hears  a  prancing  hoof, 

And  sees  a  horseman  come  ; 
Soon  the  proud  charger  reached  her  side, 

Cover'd  with  dust  and  foam. 


38  MIDNIGHT  SCENES. 

Her  husband  from  the  saddle  springs, 
And  clasps  her  to  his  breast ; 

And  on  her  icy  lip  and  brow 
The  kiss  of  love  was  pressed. 

"  How  is  our  son?"  the  father  cried; 

In  his,  her  hand  she  placed, 
And  through  their  gorgeous,  darkened  halls, 

Their  silent  way  they  traced. 

Nor  stopped,  until  they  reached  his  side, 
Who  yesterday,  in  health, — 

The  mother's  joy,  the  father's  pride, — 
Was  heir  to  all  their  wealth. 

The  mother  folded  back  the  screen, 
And  said,  "  There  lays  our  child  ;" 

Then  overcome  with  bursting  grief, 
They  wept  in  accents  wild. 

They  laid  him  in  a  marble  tomb, 

With  all  that  wealth  could  show ; 
But  deeply  in  their  castled  home 
Dark  rolled  the  tide  of  woe. 


PICTURE  No.  II. 

The  midnight  moon,  with  pallid  beams, 

From  eastern  sky  again 
Look'd  forth,  and  shed  her  fitful  gleama 

On  mountain,  hill  and  plain. 

And  far  upon  the  moaning  sea, 
She  threw  her  mellow  light ; 

And  tossing  waves,  and  heaving  spray, 
Were  gemm'd  with  diamonds  bright. 


MIDNIGHT  SCENES.  39 

But  oft  a  fitful  shadow  came, 

And  rested  like  a  shroud  ; 
For,  o'er  her  bright  and  tranquil  face; 

Stole  many  a  passing  cloud. 

The  night  winds  moan'd,  and  plaintive  sigh'd, 

O'er  mountain,  sea  and  vale, 
And  whistled  round  a  lowly  cot, 

Where  sat  a  mother,  pale. 

Her  raveii  hair  was  parted  smooth 

Upon  her  forehead  high  ; 
And  though  her  face  was  pale  with  care, 

Yet  mildly  beamed  her  eye. 

And  beauty  left  a  ling'ring  trace, 

Upon  each  feature  there  ; 
Which,  with  sweet  dignity  and  grace, 

Blended  with  ev'ry  air. 

A  feeble  taper  dimly  burn'd, 

As  swift  her  task  she  plied, 
And  oft  her  anxious  gaze  was  turn'd 

Where,  nestled  by  her  side, — 

On  a  low  pallet,  sleeping  lay 

A  darling,  cherub  boy, 
With  curling  hair  and  azure  eyes, 

His  mother's  only  joy. 

Calm  was  his  sleep;  but  starting  once, 

Half  springing  from  his  bed, 
He  spake,  in  accents  faint  and  low, 

"  0,  mother,  give  me  bread." 

And  then  her  task  she  quicker  plied, — 

The  starting  tear  repress'd, 
And,  "Oh,  my  God  !"  she  meekly  cried, 

"  Protect  the  fatherless." 


40  MIDNIGHT  SCENES. 

And  so  she  toil'd,  till  morning  spread 
Her  earliest  tints  of  gray 

Across  the  distant,  eastern  sky, 
Then  kneeling  down  to  pray 

Beside  the  little,  lowly  cot, 
Her  soul  in  trust  was  giv'n, 

Unto  that  kindly  Father's  care, 

Who  look'd  and  heard  from  Heaven. 

And  angels  came,  with  silent  dew, 
Her  throbbing  brow  to  lave  ; 

And  gentle  sleep  her  spirits  steep'd, 
Within  the  Lethean  wave. 

But  with  the  sun's  first  golden  beams, 

She  left  her  lowly  bed  ; 
And  with  her  gentle  boy,  went  forth 

To  seek  their  daily  bread. 

Small  was  the  pittance  that  was  giv'n, 
By  cringing,  sordid  wealth  ; 

But,  with  firm  confidence  in  Heav'u, 
And  thankful  for  her  health, 

She  took  again  her  weary  task, 
Through  all  the  lonely  day, 

Nor  nought  again  her  lowly  bed, 
Till  morning  dawn'd  with  gray. 

So  years  pass'd  by,  the  boy  grew  on 

In  beauty,  day  by  day  ; 
The  mother  felt  her  faithful  son 

Would  all  her  care  repay. 

And  manhood  came,  with  daring  high, 
And  brought  a  sweet  relief ; 

Plenty  for  want,  and  ease  for  toil, 
And  joy  for  all  her  grief. 


MIDNIGHT    SCENES.  41 


PICTURE  No.  III. 

Again  it  was  the  Noon  of  Night, 

The  full  orb'cl  moon  her  car  rolled  high, 

And  fringed  with  gems  of  silver  light 
The  azure  curtains  of  the  sky. 

And  all  the  glittering  host  of  stars, 
Stood  marshall'd  in  their  bright  array, 

While,  far  across  the  concave  blue, 
Lay  stretched  the  spangled  milky  way. 

And  earth  all  beautiful  and  fair, 

Lay  tranquil  as  a  sleeping  child 
Beneath  a  watchful  parent's  care  ; 

While  guardian  Heav'n  looked  down  and  smiled. 

The  trees  all  bathed  in  tears  of  Night, 
Seemed  deck'd  with  gems  of  Ophir's  gold, 

And  lilies,  in  pure  vestal  white 

Their  spotless  fragrant  leaves  unfold. 

In  gentlest  breath  the  night-winds  sigh, 
While  fleecy  clouds  like  Angel's  wings, 

Light  sailing  o'er  the  azure  sky, 
Their  shadows  cast  o'er  earthly  things. 

O  who  could  deem  that  aught  so  fair, 
So  filled  with  beauty  and  perfume  : 

Was  but  a  mighty  sepulchre, 
A  vast,  capacious  mould'ring  tornb  ? 

Or  who  could  deem  that  mis'ry  dwelt 

Within  a  paradise  so  fair, 
That  want  and  pain  and  woe  and  guilt 

Mingled  as  sad  companions  there  ? 


42  MIDNIGHT    SCENES. 

But  see  where  yonder  moonbeams  creep 
In  that  lone  crevice,  low  and  small, 

And  throws  a  struggling,  sickly  beam 
Upon  the  cold,  damp  dungeon's  wall. 

See  by  that  feeble,  gliinm'ring  ray, 
Low  seated  on  the  damp  chill  ground 

A  mother  sits,  whose  tearful  eye 
Is  cast  in  gloomy  (badness  round. 

Beside  her  lies  her  only  son  ; 

Her  lap  the  pillow  for  his  head. 
That  son  must  meet  the  convict's  doom, 

When  the  brief  hours  of  night  have  fled. 

The  mother  speaks  :  "  Oh  see,  my  son, 
Light  breaks  upon  your  dungeon  wall  ! 

It  is  a  messenger  to  thee  ; 

Methinks  it  is  thy  Saviour's  call. 

"Dost  thou  not  feel  it  on  thy  soul? 

And  wilt  thou  not  His  call  obey  ? 
His  blood  alone  can  cleanse  from  sin, 

And  wesli  thy  guilty  stains  away." 

"  Oh,  Mother,  yes,  I  feel  His  power, 

E'en  as  I  see  yon  gentle  ray  ; 
His  blessed  voice  now  says  '  Thoul't  be 

In  Paradise  with  me  this  day.'  ' 

Joy  filled  this  waiting  mother's  heart ; 

"Let  us  to  God  the  glory  give." 
They  knelt  in  humble,  grateful  prayer, 

For  Jesus  bade  that  sinner  live. 

And  Angels  hov'riug  o'er  the  scene, 

Clapped  their  glad  wings  and  flew  to  Heav'n 

To  strike  anew  their  golden  harps, 
For  peace  on  earth  and  sin  forgiv'n. 


MIDNIGHT    SCENES.  48 

And  the  rapt  seraphs  rouirl  the  throne, 
Loud  anthems  to  the  Saviour  raise ; 

While  cherubims  with  transport  burn, 
And  Heav'ns  high  dome  resounds  with  praise. 

And  when  the  hangman's  task  was  done, 
Joy  filled  the  stricken  mother's  breast. 

She  felt  her  dear  misguided  SOB, 

Through  Jesus'  blood,  had  sunk  to  rest. 

And  while  she  linger'd  on  the  earth, 

Glory  to  God  was  hourly  given, 
For  that  mysterious  spirit's  birth, 

That  makes  the  soul  an  heir  of  Heav'n, 


PICTURE  No.  IV. 

In  agcny  a  mother  knelt 

Beside  her  wasted  pulseless  child  ; 
"  Give,  oh,  give  him  b?ck  to  me," 

She  cried,  in  accents  stern  and  wild. 

That  prayer  was  heard,  the  answer  came : 
The  feeble  pulse  revived  again  ; 

And  quick  the  crimson  tide  of  life 

Flowed  warmly  back  through  every  vein. 

Yet,  though  the  mother  saw  the  change, 
No  praise  unto  her  God  was  given  ; 

No  grateful  incense  from  that  heart 
Ascended  up  to  pitying  heaven. 

'Twas  midnight's  deep  and  silent  hour, 
When  nature  folds  her  hands  to  sleep, 

And  Angels  come  to  bathe  the  flowers 
With  dewy  tears  they  only  weep. 


MIDNIGHT    SCENES. 

She  heeded  not  the  pulse  of  time 

That  throbb'd  the  moments  of  the  night, 

Nor  yet  the  early  morning's  dawn, 
That  ting'd  the  east  with  rosy  light. 

But  with  a  mother's  earnest  eye, 

Watch'd  o'er  her  infant's  peaceful  rest : 

Until  his  gentle  slumber  passed; 

Then  clasp' d  him  fondly  to  her  breast, 

Childhood's  brief  years  in  sin  were  spent ; 

The  stubborn  knee  ne'er  bent  in  prayer 
Those  lips  ne'er  spake  a  Saviour's  name, 

"  Our  Father"  never  linger'd  there. 

Youth's  golden  season,  too,  was  passed 
In  wanton  sports  and  misspent  time  ; 

And  soon  he  stood  on  manhood's  verge, 
A  hardened  wretch,  prepared  for  crime. 

Though  so  forbidding  in  his  mem, 
He  woo'd  and  won  !i  gentle  bride, 

Who  but  the  closer  to  him  clung, 
As  darker  rolled  life's  heaving  tide. 

But  though  an  Angel  shar'd  the  place, 
There  were  for  him  no  joys  at  home  ; 

He  left  his  mother  and  his  wife, 

Reckless  o'er  earth  or  sea  to  roair. 

He  stood  upon  a  sanded  deck, 

With  blood-red  pennon  floating  free, 

Ard  with  a  daring  bloody  band, 
Rode  madly  o'er  the  foaming  sea. 

The  waves  that  lashed  the  coal-black  hull 
Were  parted  oft  their  dead  to  hide  ; 

For  ocean's  surging,  billowy  foam, 
Prank  deeply  of  life's  crimson  tide. 


MIDNIGHT  SCENES.  45 

He  tossed  a  pointed  dagger  high, 

And  wore  a  sabre  by  his  side  ; 
And  many  a  geu'rous  noble  one, 

Beneath  his  powerful  arm  had  died 4 

For  bloody  deeds  of  daring  high, 
He  had  won  a  deathless  fame  ; 
And  o'er  that  reckless,  bloody  crew, 
Had  gained  a  pirate-captain's  name. 

And  though  the ir  coffers  teenvd  with  gold, 
Their  sordid  souls  still  sighed  for  more  : 

And  to  procure  the  paltry  trash 

They  scour'd  the  seas  from  shore  to  shore. 

But  Retribution's  hour  must  come  ; 

Vengeance  cannot  always  sleep  ; 
Justice,  with  her  glittering  sword, 

Pursues  them  swiftly  o'er  the  deep. 

At  midnight,  in  a  dungeon  lone, 

An  aged  female  knelt  in  prayer  ; 
But  oh,  her  low,  sepulchral  tone 

Seemed  fraught  with  anguish  aud  despair. 

"My  son,''  she  cried,  "to  morrow's  sun 
Must  witness  your  disgraceful  death; 

O,  seek  a  dying  Saviour's  love, 
E'en  with  your  expiring  breath. 

The  sun  of  Righteousness  has  risen, 
And  o'er  my  path  shed  golden  light, 

And  shone  upon  the  narrow  way, 
That  ever  followed  leads  aright. 

And  I  have  followed  to  the  cross, 

On  which  a  dying  Saviour  hung, 
Bemoaned  my  sins  with  weeping  eyes, 

Besought  his  grace  with  suppliant  tongue. 


46  MIDNIGHT    SCENES. 

He  witness'd  all  my  sorrowing  tears, 
And  heard  my  suppliant  prayer  in  HeaVf  ri 

Then  sweetly  spake  with  cheering  voice, 
"Daughter,  thy  sins  are  all  forgiven." 

Prostrate  in  dust  before  His  throne, 
My  heart's  pure  worship  then  I  gave  ; 

Sweetly  my  ransomed  spirit  sang, 
Jesus  Christ  has  power  to  save." 

Then  spake  the  son  : — "  Talk  not  to  me, 
I  heeded  not  weak  woman's  tears  ; 

But  when  I  sail'd  upon  the  sea, 
I  quickly  silenc'd  all  their  fears. 

Free  was  my  trade,  my  arm  was  free, 
And  human  blood  I  freely  spilt; 

And  many  an  aged  breast  like  thine, 
Has  sheath'd  my  dagger  to  its  hilt. 

Our  blood-red  pennon  floated  free, 

Our  blood-stained  deck  its  witness  gave  ; 
Blood,  human  blood,  was  on  our  hands, 
And  mingled  oft  with  ocean's  wave." 

Shudd'ring,  the  mother  cried  :  "  My  son, 
Though,  you  are  steeped  in  human  gore, 

There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 
That  can  your  purity  restore. 

Your  Angel  wife  bath'd  in  that  flood, 
And  proved  a  Saviour's  promise  true, 

And  when  she  gently  pass'd  from  earth 
She  left  her  dying  love  for  you  ; 

And  bade  you  seek  a  Saviour's  face, 
And  by  His  mercy  be  forgiven, 

And  by  that  new  and  living  way, 
Seek  an  inheritance  in  Heaven." 


MIDNIGHT    SCENES-  47 

"  Then  she  is  dead,"  he  mournful  cried, 

"  'Tis  better  thus,  for  see  the  ^:un 
With  rosy  light  now  streaks  the  east : 

And  ere  it  sets  my  race  is  run. 

Finn  would  I  stand  upon  the  drop, 
Meet  firmly  my  approaching  doom  ; 

But  death  is  not  an  endless  sleep, 
And  justice  lives  beyond  the  tomb. 

Yet  this  conviction  comes  too  late  ; 

My  soul  is  lost, — I  cannot  pray; 
Forget  your  son — forget  my  fate, 

And  walk  in  wisdom's  pleasant  way." 

In  agony  the  mother  pressed 

To  her  sad  heart  her  guilty  son  ; 
But  yet,  like  incense  from  that  heart, 

Sweetly  arose,  "  thy  will  be  done." 

No  hands  were  folded  on  his  breast, 
They  laid  him  not  within  the  tomb; 

The  surgeon  took  him  from  the  drop, 
To  meet  a  more  disgraceful  doom. 

And  such  is  life,  whose  ebb  and  flow 
Heaves  the  deep  sea  of  human  mind ; 

True  happiness  they  only  know, 

Whose  every  wish  's  to  Heaven  resigned* 


HISTORY  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD, 


THE   HISTORY  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD. 


EARLY  in  the  winter  of  18 — ,  there  was  a  heavy 
rain,  accompanied  by  high  winds,  which  swelled 
the  waters  of  the  Sandy  river  to  an  amazing  height, 
and  every  moving  thing  upon  its  surface  was  borne 
away  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning.  Standing 
upon  its  margin  was  Frank  Somers,  his  eyes  fixed 
with  intense  interest  upon  a  frail  raft  that  was 
plunging  and  heaving  among  the  boiling  waves. 
Upon  it  stood  a  man  about  the  middle  of  life,  with 
an  athletic  form  and  a  determined  expression  of 
countenance,  his  eyes  fixed  fiercely  upon  a  brace 
of  logs  that  had  been  left  reposing  on  the  quiet 
bosom  of  the  waters,  waiting  their  turn  to  be 
sawed  into  boards.  It  was  a  valuable  lot,  and 
would  bring  considerable  of  an  income  to  the 
owner,  therefore  he  pursued  it  over  the  rapid  cur 
rent,  hoping  to  arrest  its  course  ere  it  reached  the 
falls.  Beside  him  stood  a  young  boy  on  the  raft, 
his  cheeks  blanched  to  marble  whiteness,  and  his 
dark  eyes  fixed  imploringly  upon  his  father  as 
they  danced  along  over  the  furious  wave,  every 
bound  conveying  them  so  much  nearer  the  falls  that 


HISTORY    OF    A    HOUSEHOLD.  4.9 

thundered  ou  like  a  mighty  cataract,  heaving  up 
a  cloud  of  spray,  then  foaming  and  dashing  off  to 
join  the  mad  waters  below.  O,  it  was  a  fearful 
sight.  On,  on  went  the  logs,  and  on,  on  went  the 
raft,  the  reckless  man  exerting  himself  to  his 
utmost  to  stop  their  progress  by  endeavoring  to 
reach  them  with  a  long  pole  he  held  in  his  hand. 

Willie  Somers  raised  his  pleading  eyes  to  his 
face  (and  many  long  years  after  did  their  expres 
sion  haunt  him),  "OMr.  Lambert,  please  don't 
go  any  farther,  we  shall  be  over  the  falls." 

"  Pshaw,  child,"  answered  Mr.  Lambert,  rather 
sternly,  "  I  must  save  my  logs  at  any  risk." 

The  frantic  father  screamed  from  the  shore, — 
"  Mr.  Lambert,  save  yourselves  and  let  the  logs 

g°- 

"  You  are  lost,  you  are  lost !"  cried  many  voices, 

as  a  log  bounded  upon  a  giant  wave,  leaping  over 
the  cataract  hurrying  on  through  the  waters  be 
low.  The  strong  man  made  a  desperate  effort  and 
reached  the  land,  but  the  poor  boy  upon  the  raft 
was  precipitated  over  the  falls  into  the  gulf  below. 
As  the  agonized  father  stood  gazing  with  breath 
less  horror  upon  the  sight,  the  form  of  his  dear 
son  arose  once  more,  standing  erect  upon  the 
bounding  billows,  with  his  arms  widely  extended, 
and  his  eyes  glaring  from  their  sockets.  But  in  a 
moment  he  was  hid  from  view  beneath  the  heav 
ing  mass  of  waters.  All  effort  to  find  him  proved 
unavailing. 

The  next  spring  his  body  was  found  thirty  miles 
distant  down  the  river,  having   laid  in  the  water 
over  three  months.     He  was  sent  to  his  friends. 
Ic 


00  HISTORY   OP   A   HOUSEHOLD. 

The  father  was  almost  beside  himself,  although  r< 
man  slow  to  anger ;  but  he  turned  when  his  son 
sank  from  his  sight  groaning  in  spirit,  and  shut 
himself  up  in  his  chamber,  not  daring  to  see  Mr. 
Lambert  till  his  wrath  was  in  some  degree  abated, 
lie  secluded  himself  in  his  room  four  days,  suffer 
ing  intensely,  and  then  went  forth  among  men  an 
altered  man,  for  the  fearful  death  of  his  son  had 
made  an  impression  upon  his  mind  never  to  be 
obliterated  by  time. 

He  was  a  man  of  sorrow,  having  separated  from 
his  family  on  account  of  domestic  troubles,  and 
this,  his  only  son,  was  his  greatest  comfort. 

His  eldest  daughter  Matilda,  was  married  to  a 
man  in  the  same  neighborhood,  and  had  been  a 
witness  of  her  brother's  sudden  death.  She  was 
young  in  years,  but  insidious  consumption  was 
sapping  the  secret  springs  of  life,  and  that  awful 
sight  gave  her  a  shock  from  which  she  never  re 
covered.  The  wretched  father  soon  left  that  part 
of  the  country  and  journeyed  to  a  far  distant  south 
ern  city,  and  far,  far  away  in  a  land  of  strangers, 
they  made  his  grave.  No  dear  child  wTas  near  to 
wipe  the  dew  of  death  from  his  noble  brow,  or  to 
minister  to  his  necessities,  or  to  close  his  weary  eyes 
as  they  cast  their  sad  glances  upon  a  world  that 
had  been  to  him  a  world  of  trial. 

Matilda  gradually  failed.  She  had  given  her 
heart  with  her  hand  in  early  youth,  to  a  young 
man  of  moderate  circumstances,  but  prudent  arid 
industrious ;  and  by  these  means  they  procured  a 
comfortable  living,  and  with  this  they  were  con 
tented.  She  united  her  industry  with  that  of  her 


HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD.  51 

husband,  and  her  good  management  gave  a  neat 
and  almost  an  elegant  appearance  to  their  little 
cottage  home,  which  peeped  out  like  a  bird's  nest 
from  the  trees  that  surrounded  it.  Charles  Abbot 
was  a  happy  man,  happy  in  the  consciousness  of 
well  doing,  happy  in  the  love  of  his  wife,  and  in 
the  caresses  of  two  little  boys,  the  pledges  of 
their  united  love. 

They  had  been  married  six  years  when  the  death 
of  the  dear  brother  cast  so  deep  a  shadow  over 
their  hitherto  happy  home.  Matilda's  failing 
health  scarce  attracted  attention,  it  was  so  grad 
ual. 

A  slight  cough,  a  deeper  rose  upon  the  cheek, 
and  a  brighter  lire  in  the  eye,  were  almost  its  only 
indications.  It  was  a  calm  evening  in  the  early 
part  of  June,  as  Charles  and  Matilda  sauntered 
forth  to  inhale  the  sweet  fragrance  of  the  evening 
breeze  that  fanned  the  leaves  of  the  trees,  and 
wafted  the  odors  of  many  flowers  upon  its  downy 
pinions,  and  rippling  the  now  quiet  waters  of  the 
Sandy  river  that  lay  in  peaceful  repose,  its  glassy 
surface  reflecting  the  mild  radiance  of  the  setting 
sun. 

Before  them  ran  their  little  children  in  all  their 
sportive  gaiety,  clapping  their  hands  with  joyous 
glee,  as  they  watched  the  progress  of  a  little  boat 
that  was  plying  its  way  across  the  river,  and  lis 
tening  to  the  boatman's  whistle,  and  the  splashing 
of  the  oar  as  it  dipped  the  silver  waves.  The 
towering  mountains  rose  high  above  their  heads, 
and  "  Father  Abraham.  "  looked  as  though  it  were 
about  to  fall  and  crush  them  as  they  seated  them- 
2c 


52  HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

selves  at  its  base,  to  gaze  upon  the  prospect  before 
them.  Charles  adjusted  Matilda's  shawl  as  she 
seated  herself  by  his  side,  with  a  sharp  cough. 

He  glanced  anxiously  toward  her,  but  became 
reassured  as  the  deep  crimson  upon  her  cheek  and 
the  bright  sparkle  of  her  eye  met  his  gaze. 

She  sat  looking  pensively  towards  the  river  for 
some  time,  with  her  cheek  resting  upon  her  hus 
band's  shoulder,  and  occasionally  watching  the 
many  gambols  of  her  children  as  they  sported  at 
their  feet.  At  length  she  said  :  "  Charles,  how 
deceitful  to  me  looks  the  placid  bosom  of  yonder 
rippling  stream,  as  it  reposes  in  quiet  beauty,  re 
minding  me  of  the  stream  of  time,  on  the  ocean 
of  human  life  when  unmoved  by  the  tumultuous 
storms  of  passion  that  so  often  agitate  the  human 
breast,  and  cause  the  waves  to  rise  and  the  billows 
to  swell  before  the  surging  storm.  Scarce  six 
months  have  passed  since  that  stream  swept  by  in 
giant  fury,  and  poor  Willie  was  buried  in  its  angry 
bosom.  0,  Charles,  do  you  know  I  cannot  look 
upon  that  river  without  hearing  again  his  last 
agonizing  shriek,  and  seeing  again  his  pale  fearful 
gaze  as  he  looked  death  in  the  face,  for  well  must 
the  dear  boy  have  known  that  his  doom  was  seal 
ed  ;  and  oh,  what  agony  must  have  filled  his  breast 
as  he  cast  his  last  gaze  upon  us,  imploring  our 
assistance,  and  yet  feeling  it  would  be  vain." 

"  We  will  leave  this  place,  as  it  awakens  un 
pleasant  memories." 

"  It  is  best  so,"  continued  she  ;  "  Even  now  the 
spirit  of  my  dear  brother  seems  hovering  over  me, 


HISTORY    OF   A   HOUSEHOLD.  58 

whispering  of  the    spirit   land.     But    Charles,  I 
have  something  to  say  to  you  of  importance." 

The  husband  looked  earnestly  and  tenderly 
into  the  face  of  his  wife,  and  she  continued, 

"  Perhaps,  my  dear  husband,  you  are  not  aware 
of  my  failing  health,  but  I  feel  the  necessity  of 
having  assistance  in  my  household-duties,  and 
have  thought  perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  send 
for  sister  Ellen  to  come  and  stay  with  me  a  while." 

"  Certainly,  my  dear,  certainly  ;  I  will  go  after 
her  to-morrow  ;  forgive  me,  Matilda,  that  I  have 
not  thought  of  this  before,  but  I  think  if  you  are 
relieved  of  part  of  your  labor  for  a  while,  your 
health  will  improve." 

The  poor  wife  smiled  sadly,  and  pulling  down 
a  stalk  laden  with  buds  from  an  adjacent  rose 
bush  that  stood  waving  on  a  flowery  bank  beside 
them,  and  pointing  to  a  crimson  bud  enclosed  in 
its  casing  of  green,  she  said,  <£  Charles,  is  not  that 
a  beautiful  bud  ?" 

He  looked  at  it  and  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

"  Do  you  think  it  will  ever  bloom  ?" 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  it  should  not,  it  looks  as 
promising  as  any  one  upon  the  stem." 

"  But  look  a  little  closer,  do  you  see  that  little 
worm  gnawing  at  the  very  heart  and  sapping  the 
secret  springs  of  its  life  ?" 

Her  husband  gazed  tearfully  upon  her,  and  she 
felt  she  was  understood  ;  and  then  pressed  her  to 
his  heart  in  a  passionate,  fond  embrace,  arid  spoke 
words  of  comfort,  and  of  hope  and  of  life. 

The  wife  smiled  faintly  upon  him,  and  replied  : 

"  Even    now  there  is  such  a  weariness  in  my 


54  HISTORY    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

limbs  that  I  do  not  feel  as  though  I  scarcely  can 
reach  our  little  cottage  home,  where  we  have 
spent  so  many  happy  hours  together." 

They  called  their  little  Frank,  who  bore  his 
grandfather's  name,  arid  Willie,  for  the  youngest 
was  named  for  her  dear  brother,  and  pursued  their 
way  silently  to  the  house,  each  wrapped  in  their 
own  meditations. 

That  night,  when  Mr.  Abbot  closed  his  family 
Bible,  and  they  all  knelt  together  to  implore  God's 
mercy,  fervent  was  the  supplication  that  arose 
from  the  lips  of  the  husband  and  father,  as  he  be 
sought  grace  for  every  time  of  need.  The  heart 
of  the  husband  was  full  as  he  prayed  our  Father 
to  stay  the  disease  of  his  dear  wife,  and  earnestly 
repeated,  "  if  it  be  possible  let  this  cup  pass  from 
me  ;"  but  after  wrestling  long,  that  peace  came 
that  passeth  understanding — that  peace  that  the 
God  that  heareth  prayer  bestows  upon  his  chil 
dren  when  they  bow  themselves  before  Him,  and 
cast  their  burden  upon  Him  who  careth  for  us, 
and  ere  he  arose  from  his  knees  he  was  made  to 
say,  "  Thy  will,  not  mine  be  done  ;"  and  they  re 
tired  to  rest  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty, 
and  felt  that  his  wTatchful  eye  was  upon  them 
during  the  silent  hours  of  the  night. 

Early  the  following  morning  Mr.  Abbot  started 
to  go  down  the  river  (as  was  the  usual  phrase)  to 
Matilda's  grandfather's,  where  Annie  and  Ellen, 
the  two  younger  sisters  resided,  having  both  left 
the  residence  of  their  mother  some  time  previous. 
Annie,  then  eighteen,  had  the  sole  management 
of  the  family,  as  her  grandmother  was  very  feeble, 


HISTORY   OP  A   HOUSEHOLD.  55 

and  unable  to  assist  her  at  all.  She  was  rather 
surprised  at  Mr.  Abbot's  arrival,  and  quite  alarm 
ed  when  she  heard  the  import  of  it.  It  was  im 
mediately  settled  that  Ellen  should  go  with  him, 
and  preparation  was  accordingly  made  for  their 
departure  early  the  following  morning,  every 
thing  being  attended  to  by  the  careful  Annie,  who 
supplied  the  place  of  mother  to  the  younger  sister, 
who  was  now  about  sixteen. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  the  assistance  was  not  produc 
tive  of  the  anticipated  good ;  Matilda's  health 
declined  rapidly,  and  it  became  evident  to  all  who 
looked  upon  her,  that  she  was  passing  away  to 
the  spirit  land.  The  struggle  in  her  husband's 
mind  wras  over,  and  he  felt  a  pious  resignation  to 
the  will  of  God. 

Frequently  did  they  converse  together  upon 
the  joys  of  the  heavenly  world,  and  select  such 
passages  of  Scripture  as  are  calculated  to  prepare 
the  soul  for  its  upward  flight. 

*O  Charles,"  said  Matilda,  one  beautiful  autumn 
day,  as  the  yellow  sun  shed  his  mild  radiance  over 
the  decaying  face  of  nature,  "  support  me  by  your 
strong  arm  while  wre  pass  through  the  garden  to 
the  river  by  the  nearest  way.  I  feel  quite  refresh 
ed  to-day,  and  would  look  once  more  upon  that 
restless  stream  that  is  ever  hurrying  on  "  to  meet 
old  Ocean." 

He  placed  his  arm  lovingly  round  her  waist, 
and  almost  bore  her  to  the  spot,  scarcely  feeling 
her  weight,  so  fragile  had  she  become.  Frank 
and  Willie  accompanied  them  with  their  happy 
countenances  and  glad  voices,  and  plucking  a 
4c 


56  HISTORY  OP  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

Lunch  of  fading  flowers,  presented  them  to  their 
mother. 

She  watched  them  with  a  tranquil  smile,  and 
rewarded  them  with  a  kiss  as  she  took  the  prof 
fered  boquet  from  the  uplifted  hands  of  her  dear 
children.  Frank  was  a  noble  boy,  with  dark 
brown  hair  and  coal  black  eyes,  inheriting  his 
mother's  beauty.  Willie  was  a  feeble  child,  with 
hair  of  lighter  brown  and  eyes  of  azure  blue,  that 
betrayed  a  noble  soul  in  their  very  depths. 

The  mother  called  him  to  her,  and  taking  his 
little  hand  in  hers,  pressed  them  lightly  to  her 
forehead  and  then  to  her  lips  :  looked  earnestly 
into  his  eyes  as  though  she  would  penetrate  their 
very  depths,  then  tenderly  said  : 

"  Willie,  we  are  very  near  to  heaven  here  ;  it  is 
the  music  of  angels  that  whispers  through  the 
waving  trees,  and  it  is  the  motion  of  their  wings 
that  sways  their  branches  so  gently.  O  Willie, 
will  you  meet  me  in  heaven  ?" 

"  Frank,  come  and  kiss  me ;  we  are  very  near 
heaven;  will  you  too  meet  your  mother  there? 
Charles,  it  does  not  make  me  sad  now  to  see  the 
place  where  dear  brother  Willie  passed  over  the 
falls.  It  looks  pleasant  now,  so  near  heaven,  and 
his  gentle  spirit  says,  "sweet  sister,  come  ;"  sure 
ly  the  things  of  earth  are  passing  away.  Charles, 
the  dear  boys  will  comfort  you  when  I  am  gone, 
and  perchance  my  spirit  may  meet  with  yours  in 
sweet  comimmings,  and  soon  we  shall  meet  in 
heaven  to  spend  an  eternity  together.  Charles, 
pray  in  this  beautiful  place.  O,  those  towering 
mountains  speak  the  majesty  of  their  Creator. 


HISTORY    OF   A  HOUSEHOLD.  57 

"  Ellen,  dear,  'remember  your  Creator  in  the 
days  of  your  youth  ;'  and  oh  Charles,  pray  that 
we  all  may  meet  in  heaven." 

He  knelt  and  offered  up  the  prayer  of  faith,  but 
while  he  concluded,  there  was  a  pressure  of  the 
hand  he  held  in  his,  the  white  lips  parted,  the 
head  fell  heavily  upon  his  shoulder ;  there  was  a 
faint  whisper  "  Jesus,  receive  my  spirit,"  and 
the  mother  was  an  Angel. 

The  boys  were  overcome  with  grief.  Charles 
and  Ellen  too,  were  awe  struck. 

He  bore  his  lovely  burden  back  to  the  house 
and  wrapped  her  in  the  habiliments  of  the  grave. 

It  was  a  mournful  day  in  autumn,  when  a  sad 
procession  bore  her  to  her  last  resting  place,  and 
laid  her  down  by  the  side  of  her  much  lamented 
brother.  The  appropriate  text,  "He  that  be- 
lieveth  on  me  shall  never  die,"  comforted  the 
grief-stricken  mourners.  She  passed  away  early 
in  life,  ere  the  sun  of  twenty-four  summers  had 
shone  upon  her  pathway. 

Charles  mourned  his  loss,  but  not  as  one  with 
out  hope.  And  as  he  turned  from  the  grave  to 
his  home  and  crushed  the  blighted  leaves  of  au 
tumn  beneath  his  feet,  he  felt  that  he  too,  was 
passing  over  withered  hopes  back  to  the  battle 
field  of  human  life. 

He  cast  one  long,  lingering  glance  upon  Matil 
da's  grave,  then  looked  fervently  to  heaven,  and 
pressed  on  to  "  life  and  to  duty  with  undismayed 
heart." 

Ellen  soon  returned  to  her  grand-parents,  and  a 

sister  of  Mr.    Abbot,   losing  her    husband  about 
5c 


58  HISTORY    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

the  same  time  his  wife  died,  came  to  reside  with 
him,  and  thus  the  husband  and  children  were  pro 
vided  for ;  and  although  the  shadow  of  a  great 
grief  rested  upon  them,  and  there  was  a  vacancy 
in  their  household,  they  learned  to  be  happy  in 
the  present  good,  and  by  living  so  as  to  join  the 
dear  departed  ones  in  a  happier  world. 

It  was  again  June — mild,  lovely  June.  The  air 
was  filled  with  the  sweet  music  of  the  birds  that 
carolled  their  evening  lay,  aud  seemed  pouring 
forth  a  sweet  song  of  gratitude  to  Heaven,  for  that 
delightful  day.  Gentle  breezes  sighed  through  the 
leafy  trees  soft  as  the  first  whispering  of  young 
love,  giving  them  a  trembling  motion,  like  a  bash 
ful  maiden  as  she  blushingly  listens  to  it.  Beau 
tiful  looked  the  little  village  of  W ,  as  the 

setting  sun  cast  his  slanting  rays  upon  it,  tinging 
the  leaves  with  deeper  green,  and  burnishing  the 
little  stream  with  gems  of  sparkling  gold.  The 
tall  lilac  bushes  were  filled  with  large  red  and 
white  blossoms,  and  as  they  slightly  nodded  their 
graceful  heads  before  the  passing  zephyr,  might 
have  been  fancied  to  be  giving  a  cold  greeting  to 
some  humbler  flower  that  grew  by  their  side. 

In  a  large,  square,  old  fashioned  house,  encir 
cled  by  a  neat  white  fence,  which  separated  it 
from  the  street,  might  be  seen  a  young  girl,  occu 
pied  in  what  New  England  housewives  would  call 
setting  the  house  in  order,  and  very  carefully  are  all 
things  arranged,  the  crockery  being  nicely  wash 
ed  and  wiped  to  a  shining  brightness,  stands 
neatly  arranged  in  their  proper  places,  on  shelves 
scoured  to  a  snowy  whiteness.  The  floor  is  nicely 


HISTORY   OP   A   HOUSEHOLD.  59 

swept,  every  chair  carefully  dusted,  and  set  back 
in  its  proper  place,  and  the  broom  and  the  brush 
hung  back  upon  their  accustomed  nail.  The 
young  mistress  stood  looking  round  the  apartment 
with  the  air  of  one  who  feels  they  have  accom 
plished  well  the  designated  task,  when  she  started 
upon  hearing  her  own  name  called,  and  in  a  mo 
ment  Edward  Merton  stood  by  her  side. 

"  Annie,  come,  Annie,  just  don  your  sun-bon 
net,  and  walk  with  us  to  the  Island." 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  placed  her 
bonnet  upon  her  head,  and  drew  her  willing  arm 
in  his,  and  they  soon  joined  the  group  of  gay  com 
panions  that  stood  chatting  and  laughing  at  the 
door.  Well  did  the  sable  dress  that  Annie  wore 
become  her  fine  complexion,  for  the  rose  blended 
with  the  lily  upon  her  cheek,  and  beauty  sat  tri 
umphant  upon  her  ruby  lips  and  sparkled  in  her 
dark  flashing  eyes.  But  recent  events  had  cast  an 
expression  of  melancholy  over  her  countenance, 
which  for  a  moment  had  a  sobering  influence  over 
her  young  companions  when  she  joined  them. 

Edward  and  Annie  lingered  a  little  behind  the 
rest,  talking  of  their  future  prospects,  and  of  the 
coming  separation,  as  Edward  was  soon  to  leave 
for  Boston,  where  a  more  desirable  situation  was 
offered  him  than  could  be  obtained  in  the  village. 

"  My  increased  income,  my  dear  Annie,  will  en 
able  me  the  sooner  to  claim  you  for  my  bride  ; 
true,  the  separation  will  be  painful,  but  I  am  de 
termined  never  to  marry  till  I  can  commence 
house-keeping  genteelly." 

She  looked  earnestly  in  his  face  and  said,  "  Ed- 
Be 


60  HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD., 

ward,  it  is  home  where  the  heart  is,  and  it  seems 
to  me  we  should  not  spurn  a  present  for  a  future 
good.  This  life  is  short  and  uncertain,  and  I  feel 
a  gloomy  foreboding  when  I  think  of  your  de 
parture,  I  have  been  so  accustomed  to  seeing  you 
every  day,  to  leaning  on  your  arm  in  every  walk,  and 
going  so  constantly  with  you  everywhere,  that  I 
shall  miss  you  sadly  when  you  are  away;  but,'* 
she  continued,  smiling  through  her  tears,  "I  sup 
pose  I  must  turn  nun,  and  live  in  seclusion  during 
your  absence  7" 

"  O,  do  not  do  that,"  he  replied,  smiling  ;  "It 
will  be  but  for  a  short  time,  and  it  is  said,  '  ab 
sence  lends  enchantment  to  the  view.'  ' 

"  O,  dear,"  cried  Melinda,  a  blue  eyed  beauty, 
leaning  confidently  upon  the  arm  of  Theodore 
Stanley,  "  I  should  think  Ed.  and  Ann.  were  say 
ing  their  parting  adieus,  they  look  so  sad." 

Upon  this  the  eyes  of  the  whole  group  were 
turned  upon  them,  and  affecting  a  gaiety  they  did 
not  feel,  they  soon  hastened  forward  and  joined  in 
the  general  conversation  till  they  came  to  the 
place  of  their  destination. 

What  was  called  the  Island,  was  a  point  of  land 
in  the  edge  of  a  large  pond,  or  lake  it  might  be 
called,  as  it  was  six  miles  long  and  three  or  four 
wide.  It  was  separated  from  the  main  land  in 
low  water,  by  a  small  stream  that  was  crossed  by 
a  large  stone  placed  in  the  centre,  for  a  stepping 
stone  ;  but  in  high  water  it  could  be  reached  only 
with  boats. 

The  little  party  crossed  this  stream,  and  seated 
themselves  upon  the  grassy  knolls,  beneath  the 


HISTORY'    OF    A    HOUSEHOLD.  01 

giant  oaks  that  spread  their  huge  branches  around 
them,  for  they  were  the  growth  of  centuries. 
Loud  came  the  chorus  of  the  feathered  tribe,  as 
they  sang  their  evening  hymns  before  retiring  to 
their  nests,  which  were  very  abundant  in  that  shady 
retreat,  which  afforded  them  protection  from  the 
truant  school  boys. 

Annie  reclined  against  the  trunk  of  one  of  the 
largest  trees,  seated  by  Edward's  side,  when  sud 
denly  looking  up,  she  said, 

"O,  Edward,  let  me  have  your  knife." 

He  reached  it  to  her,  and  she  immediately  com 
menced  carving  his  name  in  the  tough  bark  of  the 
tree,  against  which  she  \vas  leaning. 

Many  followed  her  example,  and  many  fairy 
fingers  were  busy  carving  the  names  of  their  favor 
ite  friend  upon  the  trunks  of  the  aged  trees  that 
surrounded  them. 

'l  I  shall  cut  it  deep,"  said  Annie,  "  so  that  it  will 
live  forever ;  and  I  hope  there  will  be  neither 
mould  nor  moss  upon  it,  to  hide  it  from  view,  as 
I  shall  love  to  come  and  look  upon  it  when  you 
are  far  away." 

"  Ann,"  said  one,  "  we  will  come  here  in  the 
long  summer  days,  and  weave  chaplets  of  the 
bright  leaves  of  the  old  oak,  and  twine  them  round 
our  lord's  name." 

This  occupied  their  time  till  the  shadows  of 
evening  fell  around  them,  and  it  was  dark  when 
they  reached  their  homes. 

It  was  midnight — -dark,  dreary  midnight.  Black 
clouds  hung  in  huge,  portentous  masses  over  the 
vault  of  heaven.  The  forky  lightning  flashed,  and 


62  HISTORY   OF   A   HOUSEHOLD. 

the  deep  toned  thunder  reverberated  peal  on  peal, 
while  the  shrieking  winds  rocked  the  tree  tops, 
and  poured  their  wild  melody  upon  the  ear.  It 
was  nature  arrayed  in  awful  sublimity,  displaying 
the  majesty  of  God. 

Seated  on  a  low  chair,  in  the  simple  little  par 
lor  of  Annie,  sat  Edward,  with  a  pillow  upon  his 
breast,  supporting  the  head  of  the  poor  girl,  whose 
breathing  was  laborious,  and  her  cheeks  flushed 
with  an  unusual  glow,  as  she  leaned  against  him 
for  support.  This  was  the  only  situation  in  which 
she  could  breathe,  as  there  was  an  abscess  forming 
in  her  throat.  Her  physician  said  she  must  sit 
bending  forward,  as  there  was  great  danger  of  its 
producing  strangulation,  should  it  break  when  she 
was  in  any  other  position,  which  he  thought 
probably  it  might  do  before  morning.  Edward, 
therefore,  could  not  think  of  leaving  her  ;  but  kept 
his  patient  watch  by  her  side  during  the  night, 
alleviating  her  sufferings  by  every  means  in  his 
power,  speaking  tender  words  of  constancy  and 
love,  and  picturing  long  years  of  connubial  felicity 
after  he  had  won  a  fortune  in  the  distant  city. 

Suddenly  there  came  a  brighter  flash,  a  deeper 
crash,  and  it  seemed  for  the  moment  that  the  house 
was  immersed  in  a  lurid  glare  of  light.  Annie, 
screaming,  started  to  her  feet,  then  fell  back, 
fainting,  and  black  in  the  face  with  suffocation. 

Edward  thought,  as  he  caught  her  falling  form, 
that  all  was  over ;  but  after  a  short  struggle  she 
recovered,  and  the  crisis  of  her  disease  had  past, 
and  she  could  now  breathe  easier  than  she  had 
done  for  several  days. 


HISTORY    OF    A    HOUSEHOLD.  (>:* 

She  had  taken  cold  during  their  stay  on  the 
Island,  and  had  been  sick  from  that  time.  The 
storm  had  spent  its  fury,  and  the  clouds  had  passed 
away,  leaving  the  blue  canopy  of  heaven  studded 
with  golden  stars,  and  all  nature  was  refreshed  by 
the  rain  that  had  fallen  during  the  shower. 

Annie  dropped  into  a  sweet  slumber,  the  first 
that  had  visited  her  eyes  for  several  nights ;  and 
Edward  revolved  many  things  in  his  mind,  as  he 
held  her  to  his  heart.  Would  she  remain  constant 
during  his  absence,  and  meet  him  with  the  same 
affectionate  greeting  ?  What  would  be  the 
changes  that  would  take  place  in  that  time  ?  for 
he  felt  there  must  be  changes.  And,  last  of  all, 
would  his  feelings  be  the  same  towards  her  ?  truly, 
of  this  there  was  no  doubt — was  she  not  his  own 
sweet  Annie,  who  for  three  years  had  been  his  af 
fianced  bride,  and,  surely,  there  could  be  no  change 
in  him.  But  Edward  Merton  had  not  then  ex 
plored  all  the  secret  chambers  of  his  own  heart, 
and  realized  not  that  it  was  an  unwarranted  am 
bition  that,  even  then,  was  urging  him  to  leave 
the  object  of  his  affection,  postpone  his  projected 
marriage,  and  leave  the  friends  of  his  youth  where 
competence  rewarded  his  toil,  for  the  purpose  of 
acquiring  wealth  in  a  land  of  strangers.  The  gold 
en  sun  gemmed  the  drops  of  the  previous  night 
with  the  diamond's  lustre,  and  the  voice  of  active 
life  awoke  in  the  village,  ere  Annie  awoke  from 
her  slumber,  exclaiming, 

"  Why,  Edward,  is  it  possible  I  have  slept  so 
late?  but  wearied  nature  was  quite  exhausted." 


04  HISTORY    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

"  You  look  finely  refreshed,"  said  he,  giving  her 
the  parting  kiss  ;  "but  I  must  away  to  my  shop." 

Annie  recovered  rapidly,  and  soon  the  time 
came  for  Edward's  departure." 

He  could  only  speak  of  the  future,  seeming  to 
think  little  of  the  past  or  present. 

"  I  shall  write  to  you  often,  Annie,  and  you  are 
mine  till  death  do  us  part,  just  as  much  as  though 
Parson  Bates  had  told  us  so." 

A  faint  smile  rested  for  a  moment  upon  the  lip 
of  Annie — then  faded  away,  leaving  a  sadder  ex 
pression  than  before.  There  was  a  melancholy 
foreboding  at  her  heart,  and  she  at  least  did  not 
feel  willing  to  sacrifice  present  happiness  for  fu 
ture  wealth ;  and  she  feared  the  ambition  of  Ed 
ward  would  not  be  easily  satisfied.  But  she  strove 
to  subdue  the  feeling,  and  when  their  lips  united 
in  the  parting  kiss,  a  pang  shot  though  her  heart, 
and  "  it  is  his  last  kiss,"  passed  involuntarily 
through  her  thoughts. 

She  turned  hastily  away  to  wipe  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  and  bury  her  grief  in  her  own  bosom. 

Edward,  after  a  prosperous  journey,  arrived 
safely  at  his  place  of  destination,  was  settled  in  a 
lucrative  business,  even  exceeding  his  most  san 
guine  expectations,  and  was  constant  in  his  prom 
ise  of  writing  to  Annie. 

When  winter  returned  with  his  winds,  the  aged 
grandfather  was  stricken  down  by  death.  He  fell 
like  a  sturdy  oak  before  the  stroke  of  the  de 
stroyer,  for  he  too  had  buffetted  many  a  winter's 
storm,  having  lived  beyond  the  age  of  man.  They 
bore  him  to  his  grave,  when  the  winds  of  winter 


HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD.  65 

blew  fiercely  round,  and  the  drifting  snow  almost 
obstructed  their  passage  to  the  grave  yard.  He 
was  deposited  in  the  place  alotted  him,  and  left 
to  his  repose,  with  the  bleak  winds  of  winter  pelt 
ing  fiercely  upon  his  grave.  He  heeded  them  not 
— that  weary  sleeper,  tired  of  looking  upon  the 
world,  with  all  its  changes. 

Capt.  Somers  settled  in  that  country  before  the 
woodman's  axe  had  felled  the  forest  trees  ;  and 
when  they  must  pursue  their  way  to  Gardiner  by 
spotted  trees,  and  frequently  did  herds  of  Indians 
wrapped  in  their  blankets,  call  at  their  door  and 
exchange  the  moose  meat  which  they  had  dried, 
for  beef,  bread  and  other  eatables. 

These  were  times  that  tried  men's  souls,  for 
during  the  war  they  were  frequently  alarmed  by 
hearing  that  unfriendly  Indians  were  coming  upon 
them,  which  would  fill  the  early  settlers  \vith  dis 
may.  So  it  might  well  be  said,  as  they  laid  the 
aged  man  to  rest,  he  had  seen  changes,  for  truly, 
had  he  seen  "  the  wilderness  made  to  bud  and  blos 
som  like  the  rose,"  and  the  temple  of  the  living 
God  supplying  the  place  of  the  Indian's  wigwam. 

The  grandson,  who  had  come  in  possession  of 
the  property,  decided  to  break  up  house-keeping, 
and  placing  his  grandmother  in  the  family  of  a 
son,  soon  accomplished  his  purpose,  leaving  Annie 
and  Ellen  to  look  out  for  themselves.  Ellen  went 
to  reside  with  her  mother,  who  had  erected  a  lit 
tle  cottage  in  a  distant  village. 

This  was  a  severe  trial  to  Annie ;  she  scarcely 
knew  what  course  to  pursue ;  but,  procuring 
board  with  an  intimate  friend,  she  entered  a  cotton 


66  HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

factory  with  a  number  of  her  young  friends,  think 
ing  that  would  be  a  respectable,  and  an  easy  way 
of  obtaining  her  livelihood. 

She  wrote  an  affectionate  letter  to  Edward,  in 
forming  him  of  the  change  in  her  circumstances 
and  her  present  occupation,  saying  she  did  not 
think  the  occupation  would  diminish  her  worth, 
or  tarnish  her  good  name. 

He  answered  it  by  requesting  her  to  leave  her 
employment,  and  offering  to  pay  her  board  if  she 
would  do  so ;  but  she  preferred  being  independ 
ent,  and  thought  she  would  remain  and  earn  what 
she  could  to  help  herself;  and  there  the  matter 
dropped,  she  working  on  two  weary  years.  Often 
did  she  visit  the  Island,  gaze  upon  the  name  of 
Edward,  and  recall  the  scenes  of  that  and  many 
other  evenings. 

Many  of  the  companions  of  that  evening  had 
united  their  destinies  for  life — many  had  left  the 
village,  and  some  had  closed  their  eyes  forever 
upon  the  things  of  earth,  and  entered  upon  the 
untried  scenes  of  eternity. 

It  was  the  close  of  a  dreary  autumn  day,  when 
the  withered  leaves  rustled  before  the  cold  chilly 
winds,  and  the  dust  was  hurried  on  in  eddying 
torrents,  that  there  came  a  whispered  report  to 
the  ear  of  Annie  that  Edward  had  returned  from 
Boston.  Her  heart  beat  violently,  and  she  could 
scarcely  stand  upon  her  feet,  as  she  contemplated 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  again,  after  so  long  an 
absence.  Many  were  the  cordial  greetings  she 
received  from  her  merry  companions,  upon  the 
occasion.  She  hurried  home,  eager  with  expecta- 


HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD.  67 

tion,  wondering,  as  she  judged  him  by  the  tumul 
tuous  beatings  of  her  own  heart,  he  did  not  seek 
her  sooner.  As  she  passed  on  to  her  boarding 
place,  she  saw  him  standing  at  a  distance,  in  con 
versation  with  his  brother,  and  although  his  back 
was  towards  her,  she  mentally  exclaimed, 

"It  is  indeed  my  own  Edward." 

She  made  her  toilet  with  great  care,  and  dressed 
herself  in  such  colors  as  were  pleasing  to  him,  ar 
ranging  her  hair  in  the  way  that  he  had  so  often 
praised.  The  fire  diffused  a  cheerful  glow  round 
the  comfortable  apartment.  Annie  seated  her 
self  by  the  window,  momentarily  expecting  his 
arrival.  She  took  up  a  book  and  tried  to  read. 
Hour  passed  after  hour,  and  still  she  listened  in 
vain  for  his  well  known  footsteps.  The  clock 
struck  nine  ;  the  lire  had  gone  out  upon  the  hearth, 
and  the  autumnal  gale  whistled  mournfully  round 
and  swayed  the  branches  of  a  leafless  tree  that 
stood  beneath  her  window. 

Annie  arose,  extinguished  her  light,  and  again 
seated  herself  by  the  window,  leaning  her  cheek 
upon  her  hand,  with  her  elbow  resting  upon  the 
window  stool,  she  sat  looking  back  into  the  silent 
chambers  of  the  past. 

The  wan,  declining  moon  looked  coldly  down 
upon  her,  as  it  peeped  out  behind 

"tlio  broken  parted  clouds, 


Brightening  their  dark  brown  sides." 

She  sat,  pale  and  motionless,  till  the  stars  faded 
from  the    sky,  and  the  golden  king  of  day  an- 


68  HISTORY    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

iiounced  his  coming,  by  streaking  the  east  with 
his  herald  beams.  She  was  accosted  by  her  com 
panions,  with  many  compliments  upon  her  looks, 
as  they  joked  her  upon  the  return  of  her  lover,  and 
concluded  by  sympathising  with  her  in  liis  early 
departure  for  L.,  the  residence  of  his  father.  Lit 
tle  thought  these  careless  ones  how  deep  a  wound 
they  were  inflicting  upon  the  heart  of  the  sensi 
tive  Annie.  She  never  told  her  grief,  but  strove 
to  hide  her  feelings  in  her  owrn  bosom.  She  could 
not  think  he  had  forsaken  her,  but  often  would 
she  think  it  was  indeed  his  last  kiss. 

About  this  time  the  owners  of  the  factory  con 
cluded  their  profits  did  not  amount  to  what  they 
anticipated,  and  therefore,  dismissed  their  help  and 
shut  up  their  factory. 

The  circumstances  of  Edward  and  Annie  had 
now  become  generally  known. 

She  said  little,  only  affirming  he  should  have  all 
the  honor  there  \vas  to  be  had,  for  she  had  much 
rather  have  the  name  of  being  deceived,  than 
keeping  company  with  a  man  so  long  she  did  not 
love  ;  but  every  one,  of  course,  would  express 
their  opinion,  and  so  the  village  talk  went  on. 

Perhaps  it  was  with  less  regret  upon  this  ac 
count,  that  Annie  prepared  to  leave  the  place,  to 
live  with  an  aunt  that  resided  a  few  miles  distant. 
She  collected  together  her  little  stock  of  goods, 
which  she  had  prepared  for  house-keeping,  consist 
ing  of  table  linen,  bedding  and  such  like  things 
that  the  careful  housewife  knows  so  well  how  to 
appreciate. 

Among  the  many  and  beautiful  bed  quilts  pieced 


HISTORY  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD.  GO 

by  her  industrious  fingers,  was  one  set  together  in 
what  is  called  Job's  trouble,  with  many  a  grave 
warning  ringing  in  her  ears,  accompanied  by  an 
ominous  shake  of  the  head,  and  an  assurance  she 
never  would  marry  Edward  if  she  pieced  her  quilt 
together  so.  She  sighed  now  as  she  unfolded  it, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  upon  its  beauty. 
Then  smoothly  replacing  the  folds,  and  laying  it 
in  a  large  chest,  she  sighed  as  she  said, 

"  Indeed,  I  shall  never  marry  him." 

Years  had  passed,  and  many  suitors  had  sighed 
for  the  hand  of  Annie,  and  she  had  consented  to 
become  the  wife  of  Alfred  Lombard,  after  suc 
ceeding  years  should  more  fully  obliterate  the  re 
membrance  of  past  disappointment.  He  was  a 
young  man  of  good  family,  and  handsome  exterior, 
and  though  Annie  did  not  love  him  with  the  ardor 
of  a  first  love,  still  she  respected  his  character,  and 
admired  his  virtues. 

His  estimable  mother  too,  had  shown  much  af 
fection  for  the  fatherless  Annie,  and  she  had  spent 
many  months  beneath  their  hospitable  roof,  sup 
plying  to  them  the  place  of  a  daughter,  while  they 
conferred  upon  her  all  the  affection  of  parents, 
and  looking  wishfully  forward  to  the  time  when 
their  marriage  should  take  place. 

Annie  was  schooling  her  heart  to  forget  the 
past ;  but  some  remembered  word,  or  dearly  loved 
token  would  awaken  the  old  grief  in  her  bosom, 
and  bring  the  scalding  tear  drops  to  her  eye  lids. 

It  was  a  bright  afternoon  in  early  autumn,  that 
Annie  sat  sewing  by  a  window  in  the  luxuriously 
furnished  parlor  of  Colonel  Stuart,  her  uncle,  who 


70  HISTORY    OF    A    HOUSEHOLD. 

was  the  practicing  physician  of  the  village,  thai 
she  was  started  by  a  loud  ringing  of  the  door  bell. 
Supposing  it  was  some  one  after  her  uncle,  she  paid 
little  heed  till  she  heard  her  own  name  called,  and 
in  a  moment  after  Edward  Morton  stood  before  her. 
He  extended  his  hand,  exclaiming,  "  My  Annie." 
There  wras  a  marble  paleness  upon  her  cheek,  and 
with  a  trembling  voice  she  saluted  him.  He  said 
as  he  was  returning  from  Augusta  he  thought  he 
would  take  that  opportunity  to  return  her  letters, 
and  take  his,  at  the  same  time  drawing  a  small 
package  from  his  pocket.  She  took  them  with  a 
trembling  hand,  but  strove  to  appear  calm,  for 
she  saw  he  was  watching  her  with  Argus  eyes  to 
fathom  the  secret  recesses  of  her  soul. 

She  entered  her  chamber  and  took  from  a  small 
box,  which  was  a  gift  from  Edward,  those  dear 
old  letters,  over  which  she  had  wept  so  often,  and 
which  breathed  tender  tones  of  love  and  affec 
tion,  and  spoke  of  happy  wedded  days  in  the 
perspective. 

But  now  she  must  part  with  these  too*  She 
pressed  them  once  more  to  her  heart,  and  entering 
the  room,  presented  them  to  him.  He  glanced  at 
her  earnestly  as  he  took  them  from  her,  saying  as 
he  did  so, 

"You  do  not  look  well,  Miss  Somers." 

She  colored  slightly,  and  replied, 

"  O  yes  sir,  I  am  quite  well." 

"  I  suppose,"  continued  he,  "  you  have  heard 
that  I  was  about  being  married." 

"  I  have,"  was  her  brief  answer. 

"It  is  a  mistake,  I  have   no  idea  of  it,"  and 


HISTORY    OF    A    HOUSEHOLD.  71 

wishing  her  a  hasty  good  afternoon  he  took  his 
leave  without  any  reference  to  or  explanation  of 
past  events. 

^nnie  sat  like  a  statue  after  his  departure, 
crushing  the  letters  in  her  hands,  gazing  upon 
vacancy.  A  marble  paleness  overspread  her  face, 
and  she  felt  now  that  her  cup  of  misery  was  in 
deed  full.  She  laid  aside  her  work,  and  locking 
herself  in  her  chamber  gave  vent  to  her  feelings 
in  a  passionate  flood  of  tears.  She  tried  to  con 
quer  her  feelings  and  summon  her  woman's  pride 
to  her  aid,  but  it  would  not  do.  "  Cruel  Ed 
ward,"  she  mentally  exclaimed,  "  you  might  have 
spared  me  this,  or  told  me  the  cause  of  this  neg 
lect  and  coldness."  And  as  she  reflected  upon 
the  trapping  of  wealth  with  which  he  was  sur 
rounded,  arid  the  splendor  of  his  equipage,  she 
asked  herself,  "  can  it  be  that  love  of  gold  is  the 
cause  '?"  Echo  answered  "  can  it  be  ?" 

As  the  weary  night  drew  to  a  close,  the  tem 
pest  in  the  poor  girl's  bosom  began  to  subside. 
But  as  the  heaving  ocean  bears  upon  its  waves 
plank  after  plank  of  the  ship-wrecked  vessel  that 
has  been  stranded  upon  its  tempest  tossed  bosom, 
so  did  the  surging  waves  of  memory  bring  back 
one  incident  after  another  in  her  past  life,  and 
picture  the  tender  looks  and  the  tender  tones  of 
the  unfaithful  Edward,  daring  the  many  long  years 
she  had  regarded  him  as  her  future  husband.  To 
him  she  had  yielded  up  her  heart's  best  affections. 
For  his  sake  she  had  rejected  many  an  advanta 
geous  offer  of  marriage. 


72  HISTORY  en?  A  HOUSEHOLD. 

She  met  the  family  in  the  morning  with  quite 
a  composed  countenance,  but  with  a  sad  heart. 

In  the  afternoon  she  went  to  her  uncle's  to  visit 
her  grandmother,  thinking,  perhaps,  change  of 
place  might  produce  some  change  in  her  feelings. 
It  was  a  delightful  afternoon.  The  sun  shed  that 
soft  subdued  light  so  peculiar  to  the  season,  over  the 
face  of  nature,  which  seemed  rather  approxima 
ting  to  maturity  than  verging  to  decay.  The 
trees  were  robed  in  their  deepest  green,  while  the 
early  ripe  fruit  hung  temptingly  upon  their 
branches,  or  lay  scattered  upon  the  ground  be 
neath.  Scarce  a  breeze  agitated  the  trembling 
leaf  or  cooled  the  fever  upon  her  cheek.  "  0," 
thought  she,  as  she  passed  along,  "  the  howling  of 
the  wdntry  storms  would  better  correspond  with 
my  feelings  than  this  holy  calm."  She,  in  her 
agony,  had  not  yet  learned  to  bathe  her  restless 
spirit  in  the  fountain  of  living  waters,  or  to  listen 
to  that  voice  that  said,  "  Peace,  be  still,"  and  the 
winds  and  waves  obeyed ;  therefore  she  had  no 
"  shelter  from  the  windy  storm  and  tempest." 

She  was  startled  by  hearing  same  one  near  her 
repeating  in  a  low,  musical  voice, 

"  Little  Hannah  Pease,  little  Hannah  Pease  ; 
old  Ben  Thornton,  old  Ben  Thornton,"  and  look 
ing  up,  perceived  near  her  a  female,  loosely  wrap 
ped  in  a  large  white  woolen  blanket,  which  was 
her  only  clothing.  Her  head  and  feet  were  entire 
ly  bare.  Her  black  hair  was  cut  short,  and  her 
weather  beaten  countenance  retained  traces  of 
great  beauty.  She  stood  courtesying  and  smiling 
to  a  rock.  As  Annie  reached  her  side,  she  mut- 


HISTORY   OF   A   HOUSEHOLD.  73 

tered,  "  Old  Ben  Thornton,  old  Ben  Thornton,  you 
deceived  poor  Betsey  Lotrop — you  deceived  poor 
Betsey  Lotrop." 

Annie  gazed  upon  her  with  pity,  saying  men 
tally, 

"  A  poor  victim  of  unfaithful  love  ;  I  hope  the 
fire  that  is  feeding  upon  the  springs  of  my  life  may 
never  destroy  my  reason,"  and  at  that  moment 
she  seemed  to  feel  the  need  of  seeking  aid  from  a 
higher  power,  and  for  the  first  time  the  prayer  for 
guidance  and  direction  went  up  to  Grod,  in  earnest 
supplication,  and  our  Father,  who  pitieth  his 
children  and  seeth  the  returning  prodigal  afar  off, 
breathed  peace  into  her  troubled  spirit,  and  thus 
commenced  the  first  dawnings  of  a  new  and  better 
life  in  the  heart  of  this  poor  lonely  one. 

Poor  Betsy  stood  curtesying  and  talking  to  the 
rock,  till  Annie  walked  some  distance  from  her, 
when  gathering  her  blanket  a  little  more  closely 
about  her,  and  walking  rapidly  forward,  soon  over 
took  her,  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face,  with 
a  low,  gurgling  laugh,  she  continued, 

"Poor  little  Hannah  Pease,  poor  little  Hannah 
Pease — perhaps,  if  you  had  married  him,  you 
wouldn't  been  any  better  off.  This  face  was  a 
beautiful  face  once  ;  it  was  the  handsomest  face 
that  ever  was  seen ;  look  at  it  now — how  would 
you  find  it  out  ?  Old  Ben  Thornton,  old  Ben 
Thornton,"  and  fetching  another  laugh,  she  sprang 
over  the  fence,  and  was  soon  lost  from  sight  among 
the  trees. 

Annie  soon  reached  her  uncle's,  where  she  met 
with  a  cordial  reception,  and  she  felt  that  she  had 
ID 


74  HISTORY    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

learned  a  salutary  lesson  from  the  poor  lunatic. 
The  next  afternoon,  she  and  her  cousin  Edith  wan 
dered  forth  into  an  adjoining  field,  to  enjoy  a  stroll 
beneath  the  cloudless  sky,  and  inhale  the  sweet 
breath  of  autumn,  which  was  borne  upon  the  gen 
tle  gales.  Nature  was  at  rest.  No  stormy  wind 
ruffled  her  bosom  or  agitated  its  surface.  Her 
rich  store  of  fruits  lay  spread  out  in  great  abund 
ance,  and  the  whitened  fields  stood  ready  for  the 
harvest. 

They  conversed  upon  indifferent  subjects  till 
they  came  to  a  little  silver  stream,  threading  its 
silent  way  through  the  silken  grass.  They  crossed 
and  seating  themselves  beneath  the  shade  of  a 
thrifty  apple  tree,  picked  up  some  of  the  deli 
cious  fruit  that  lay  scattered  in  rich  profusion 
around  them. 

"  0,  Annie,  I  forgot  to  tell  you  I  received  a  visit 
from  Dora,  yesterday ;  she  is  very  unhappy  on 
account  of  Charles  Stanley's  conduct.  She 
did  not  wish  to  go  to  the  ball,  on  account  of 
her  father's  death,  and  he  waited  upon  Eveline 
Houghton — then  leftfor  Turner  without  calling  to 
see  Dora." 

"  Indeed,  I  thought  they  were  to  be  married 
this  fall  ?" 

"Such  has  been  the  report ;  but  as  she  has  not 
seen  or  heard  from  him  since,  she  does  riot  know 
how  to  construe  his  conduct  towards  her." 

"  When  Orville  was  returning  from  his  eastern 
tour,  he  came  across  Charles,  in  Portland,  and 
rode  with  him  a  short  distance.  He  sent  Dora  a 
present  by  him,  but  told  him  nothing  of  the 


HISTORY   OP   A   HOUSEHOLD.  75 

transaction.  She  came  to  me  in  liopes  of  hearing 
something  more  definite  from  him." 

"  How  does  the  poor  girl  bear  it  P" 

"  She  is  very  unhappy,  and  says  she  is  not 
ashamed  to  have  people  know  she  had  been  de 
ceived  ;  but  many  tell  her  they  wouldn't  mind 
anything  about  it." 

"  They  may  say  so,"  said  Annie,  raising  her 
dark  eyes  to  Edith,  while  a  deeper  flush  suffused 
her  cheek;  "but,  Edith,  I  tell  you,  it  will  wear 
and  wear  upon  the  secret  springs  of  life,  till  it 
bears  its  victim  to  the  grave." 

Edith  gazed  upoh  her  with  such  an  anxious, 
pitying  expression,  that  she  felt  she  had  betrayed 
her  own  secret,  and  bending  her  head  to  hide  her 
blushes,  she  picked  up  the  mellow,  golden  colored 
fruit  that  lay  around  her,  and  commenced  rolling 
them  down  into  the  stream  that  flowed  at  their 
feet.  At  that  moment  poor  crazy  Betsey  Thorn 
ton  came  bounding  over  the  stone  wall  that  sepa 
rated  that  from  an  adjoining  enclosure,  and  gath 
ering  her  blanket  about  her,  stood  curtesying  and 
laughing  before  them,  repeating  as  she  did  so, 

"  Poor  little  Hannah  Pease,  poor  little  Hannah 
Pease — old  Ben  Thornton,  old  Ben  Thornton." 

•'  Take  some  apples,  Mrs.  Thornton,"  said 
Edith,  as  she  regarded  her  with  a  sad  expression 
of  countenance. 

She  took  them,  curtesied,  and  with  her  low, 
gurgling  laugh,  leaped  over  the  wall,  and  went 
muttering  on  to  rock  or  tree,  or  any  other  object 
that  came  in  her  way. 

"Edith,"  said  Annie,  "what  poor  Blanche  is 

2D 


76  HISTORY    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD.. 

that,  for  a  poor  love  sick  maiden,  lam  sure  she 
must  be  ?  As  she  came  with  her  large  blanket 
fluttering  over  the  wall,  it  reminded  me  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  poor  Blanche,  that 

"  Stood  hovering  o'er  the  hollow  way, 
And  fluttered  wide  her  mantle  gray." 

Edith  smiled  as  she  replied, 

"  You  are  right — and  yet  you  are  wrong  in  your 
surmises  ;  she  is  not  the  victim  of  a  faithless  lover, 
but  the  victim  of  a  faithless  husband." 

"  But,"  replied  Annie,  "  a  victim  to  man's  in 
constancy,  at  any  rate  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  Annie,  that  is  what  all  the  poets 
sing." 

"  And  with  all  this  before  you,  Edith,  are  you 
not  afraid  to  unite  your  destiny  with  Orville  Som 
erset?" 

"  I  sometimes  fear  to  ;  but  oh,  if  he  is  ever  to 
prove  untrue,  may  it  be  before  wre  are  united  by 
the  solemn  covenant  of  marriage." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better,  but  I  think  it  will 
never  come  to  you,  Edith." 

This  conversation  led  to  a  full  disclosure  of  Ed 
ward's  conduct,  and  Annie  unbosomed  herself  more 
fully  to  her  cousin  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 
She  sympathised  with  her  in  her  feelings,  saying, 

"  0,  Annie,  should  Orville  serve  me  so,  I  do  not 
think  I  could  bear  it  as  well  as  you  do." 

Annie,  smiling  faintly,  said, 

"  But  the  end  is  not  yet,  Edith." 

The  sun  had  finished  his  journey  in  the  sky,  and 


HISTORY   OF   A   HOUSEHOLD.  77 

twilight  was  gathering  around  them,  when,  with 
arms  entwined  round  each  other,  they  pursued 
their  way  back,  conversing  upon  the  disappoint 
ments  of  life,  and  the  misery  that  is  produced  by 
inconstancy  and  faithlessness. 

"Mrs.  Thornton,"  continued  Edith,  "was  a 
beauty,  as  you  may  even  now  perceive  by  its  traces 
upon  her  weather  beaten  countenance,  and  her 
position  in  society  was  far  above  Mr.  Thornton  ; 
but  won  by  his  addresses,  she  consented  to  become 
his  wife.  They  came  to  this  country,  among 
strangers,  to  an  humble  home,  where  she  suffered 
many  privations,  which  she  bore  with  woman's 
fortitude.  But  when  her  busband  became  an  ine 
briate,  and  treated  her  with  moroseness  and  bru 
tality,  reason  forsook  its  throne,  and  she  became 
a  maniac.  Hannah  Pease  was  an  intimate  friend 
of  hers,  who  seems  to  be  ever  in  her  mind,  per 
haps  because  she  used  her  influence  to  prevent  the 
unhappy  union." 

"O,"said  Annie,  "when  I  reflect  upon  the  misery 
that  sometimes  exists  in  the  married  state,  I  almost 
feel  it  is  well  to  be  situated  as  I  am  now,  as  to  be 
united,  even  to  Edward.  But  then,  the  cruel  dis 
appointment  rankles  deep." 

"And  how  many  men,"  said  Edith,  "  make  the 
indifference,  the  ill  temper,  or  the  untidiness  of  a 
wife  an  excuse  for  their  intemperance,  tavern- 
haunting,  and  all  their  neglect  of  home.  But  it 
does  seem  to  me  that  it  devolves  as  much  upon  a 
man,  to  contribute  to  home  happiness  as  upon  a 
woman.  But  many  men  of  my  acquaintance  seem 
ever  to  cast  a  shadow  upon  the  sunlight  of  home, 

3D 


78  HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

and  their  wives  arid  children  shrink  from  their 
presence.  Is  this  the  wife's  fault?" 

"  I  think  not.  If  so,  I  think  the  stronger  yield 
very  readily  to  the  weaker,  and  certainly  should 
receive  our  sympathy." 

"  But,  Annie,  how  much  there  is  in  this  little 
world  of  ours,  that  is  mysterious  and  beyond  our 
comprehension,  and  nothing  so  much  so  as  the 
want  of  union  in  the  marriage  relation.  For  there 
the  greatest  fondness  is  often  turned  to  the  great 
est  inattention.  But,  oh,  may  Heaven  save  me 
from  such  a  lot !" 

By  this  time  the  cousins  reached  the  house,  and 
soon  retiring  to  rest,  Edith  was  wandering  in  the 
land  of  dreams,  while  Annie  lay  busied  in  thought, 
counting  the  hours  of  night,  and  seeking  to  look 
"  beyond  the  narrow  bounds  of  time,  and  fix  her 
hopes  of  happiness  on  heaven." 

The  rougher  blasts  of  autumn  blew  more  fierce 
ly  round,  and  the  dry  and  withered  leaves  fell  from 
the  trees,  and  drifted  along  before  the  chilly  winds, 
while  the  black  passing  clouds  cast  a  deep  shadow 
over  the  face  of  decaying  nature.  Everything 
bespeaking  the  return  of  dreary,  desolating  win 
ter. 

Annie  had  faded  with  the  leaves  of  autumn — 
she  had  heard  of  Edward's  union  with  a  young 
lady  of  great  wealth  and  beauty  soon  after  his  visit 
to  her,  and  she  felt  grieved,  when  she  reflected 
upon  the  unmanly  manner  in  which  he  had  con 
ducted  towards  her.  She  had  conversed  freely 
with  Alfred,  and  laying  all  the  circumstances  of 
the  case  before  him,  told  him  she  should  respect 


HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD.  79 

him  while  she  lived,  but  was  fully  sensible  her 
blighted  heart  never  could  know  another  earthly 
love. 

"  And  while  the  lamp  of  life  continues  to  burn," 
she  added,  "  I  wish  to  direct  my  thoughts  to 
Heaven,  and  prepare  for  that  change  that  is  before 
me.  Death,  Alfred,  will  soon  claim  me  for  his 
bride  ;  he,  at  least,  will  not  prove  recreant  to  his 
trust." 

Alfred  kissed  her  pale  cheek,  and  looked  tender 
ly  upon  her,  feeling  that  her  presages  were  indeed 
too  true. 

She  was  soon  removed  to  the  home  of  her  mo 
ther,  whose  heart  yearned  towards  her  dying  child 
with  the  affection  of  a  true  mother.  As  Annie's 
health  declined  rapidly,  and  the  things  of  earth 
became  more  dim  and  shadowy,  the  heavenly  be 
came  more  distinct  and  glorious. 

"O,  Ellen,"  she  would  say,  "how  precious  at 
such  a  time  as  this,  is  the  presence  of  the  Saviour, 
who  condescends  to  minister  to  us  in  our  necessi 
ties.  O,  Ellen,  do  seek  an  interest  in  his  dying 
love.  You  will  be  the  only  remaining  one  soon. 
Father,  Matilda,  and  Willie  have  long  since  passed 
from  earth,  and  soon — very  soon,  I  must  join  them 
in  the  spirit  land.  Oh,  mother,  do  try  by  repent 
ance  and  faith,  to  meet  us  there,  so  that  we  may 
be  a  united  family  in  heaven,  though  we  have 
been  divided  upon  earth.  As  I  now  stand  upon 
the  brink  of  the  grave,  looking  back  upon  life,  and 
forward  to  the  future  life,  I  feel  like  the  ship 
wrecked  mariner,  who  has  entered  the  haven  of 
peace,  after  the  winds  and  the  storms  have  subsid- 

4D 


80  HISTORY   OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

ed,  and  the  tumultuous  tossings  of  the  waves 
have  ceased.  For,  oh,  this  poor  heart  has  been 
wrung  by  disappointments,  but  I  see  now  it  was 
all  for  the  best ;  my  Heavenly  Father  would  have 
all  my  heart,  and  so  he,  in  his  infinite  wisdom, 
separated  me  from  my  idol,  and  now  my  affections, 
separated  from  earthly  love,  are  fixed  upon  him, 
he  is  my  rock,  and  my  stay.  No  earthly  friend 
could  go  with  me  '  through  the  valley  and  shadow 
of  death  ;'  but  Christ  can  go  with  me,  and  open 
wide  the  gates  of  heaven,  and  usher  my  willing 
spirit  into  the  presence  of  the  happy  throng  that 
worship  before  the  throne  of  God." 

It  was  a  dreary  day  in  mid-winter.  The  wind 
howled  in  fitful  gusts,  and  the  falling  snow  was 
piled  in  huge  drifts  before  it.  Annie,  pale  and 
laboring  for  breath,  was  bolstered  up,  in  bed,  for 
the  angel  of  death  was  visiting  the  poor  girl.  His 
icy  fingers  were  upon  her  fluttering  pulses,  and 
the  feeble  current  of  life  stood  still. 

"  0,"  said  she,  "  the  winds,  in  their  wild  fury, 
seem  singing  praises  to  God.  My  heart  is  so  at 
tuned  to  praise,  that  all  things  seem  to  unite  in 
the  universal  hymn  of  thanksgiving  to  our  Saviour 
and  our  God.  O,  Ellen,  is  there  no  music  in  those 
words,  to  your  young  heart  ?  And,  mother,  does 
it  not  come  to  you,  in  your  declining  age,  and  bid 
your  wearied  spirit  seek  that  rest  that  remains  for 
the  people  of  God  ?" 

She  ceased  to  speak  :  the  breath  became  shorter 
and  shorter,  till  it  only  came  with  convulsive 
gasps.  She  once  again  opened  her  weary  eyes, 
looked  earnestly  upon  the  face  of  her  mother  and* 


HISTORY  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD.  81 

her  sister,  then  glancing  round  the  apartment, 
seemed  as  though  she  were  bidding  a  last  adieu 
to  all  it  contained — then  closing  them  forever  upon 
earthly  things,  without  a  struggle  or  a  groan,  the 
spirit  of  Annie  Somers  passed  gently  away. 

The  storm  continued  its  violence,  and  desolate 
indeed,  was  the  cottage  home  of  the  mother  and 
the  sister,  where  lay  the  lifeless  form  of  Annie, 
reposing  in  the  long  deep  sleep  of  death. 

It  was  Sabbath  day — a  stormy  Sabbath  day, 
when  the  coffin  of  Annie  was  borne  upon  the 
shoulders  of  four  men  to  its  last  resting  place. 

It  was  covered  with  a  neat  black  velvet  pall,  at 
each  corner  of  which  hung  suspended  a  heavy 
black  silk  tassel,  which  waved  in  the  wind  as  it 
came  careering  on,  in  fitful  gusts,  one  blast  scat 
tering  a  shower  of  snow  upon  the  velvet  pall,  and 
the  next,  sweeping  it  away,  and  so  they  laid  her 
in  her  grave,  amid  the  howling  of  the  wintry 
storm ;  but  it  disturbed  not  her  repose. 

Willie  and  Matilda  sleep  upon  the  banks  of  the 
Sandy  river.  The  father's  grave  was  made  upon 
the  banks  of  the  far  off  Mississippi,  and  Annie 
rests  by  the  side  of  the  winding  Androscoggin ; 
her  mother,  too,  is  by  her  side  ;  for  she  soon  fol 
lowed  to  the  land  of  shadows. 

Ellen  has  entered  upon  the  responsible  duties 
of  wife  and  mother,  and  is  acting  well  her  part  in 
the  drama  of  life.  Her  usually  volatile  spirit  is 
chastened  and  subdued  by  the  sorrows  that  have 
passed  over  it,  and  it  is  her  earnest  endeavor  so  to 
live,  as  to  meet  the  approbation  of  God,  and  her 

5D 


82  HISTORY    OF   A    HOUSEHOLD. 

own  conscience  and  train  her  dear  children  for 
that  better  life  that  is  promised  to  the  pure  in 
heart. 

Were  I  weaving  a  tale  of  fiction,  the  reason  of 
Edward's  conduct  would  be  required  to  complete 
the  work ;  but  it  has  been  said 

"  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction," 

and  Annie  died  without  ever  receiving  any  expla 
nation.  Thus  we  will  leave  them,  with  the  assur 
ance  that  they  shall  again  be  united,  although 
their  remains  are  now  so  widely  separated. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  DURING  CONVALESCENCE  FROM  BRAIN  FEVER. 


SING  on,  sweet  bird,  thy  gentle  strain 
"  Can't  cool  my  brow,  or  cool  my  brain  ;" 
But  yet,  thou  hast  a  magic  pow'r 
To  lull  me  in  a  fev'rish  hour ; 
Thy  pleasant  notes,  so  sweet  and  clear, 
Come  soft  and  mellow' d  to  my  ear. 
And  when  my  head  is  rack'd  with  pain, 
Burning  my  brow,  throbbing  my  brain, — 
When  all's  tumultuous,  toss'd,  and  wild, 
And  frantic  as  a  wayward  child  ; 
Roaring  as  if  old  ocean's  waves 
Were  bursting  from  their  coral  caves  ; 
Tossing  as  if  old  ocean's  foam 
Were  rocking  to  its  highest  home ; 
Moaning  as  if  the  sea  bird's  wail 
Were  screaming  o'er  the  tatter'd  sail ; 
And  ev'ry  ship  were  tempest  toss'd, — 
Its  rudder  gone, — its  pilot  lost ; 
And  no  kind  ray  of  light  were  giv'n, 
To  cheer  them,  from  the  vault  of  heav'n, 
Save  the  vivid  lightning's  flash, — 
Pealing  the  deep  ton'd  thunder  crash, 
Glancing  upon  the  tow'ring  wave, 
Above  the  seaman's  yawning  grave  ; — 
Glaring  into  that  dark  abyss, 
Where  hideous  monsters  dart  and  hiss, 
6D 


84  LINES. 

And  ship  wreck'd  seamen,  far  from  home, 

Toss  amid  the  briny  foam  ; 

Till  the  proud  wave,  with  one  stern  sweep, 

Buries  the  secrets  of  the  deep  ; 

Revealing  far,  on  upper  land, 

A  lawless  bandits'  wand'ring  band, 

With  sword  and  rapier,  stain'd  with  blood, 

Still  thirsting  for  the  crimson  flood ; 

They  show  no  mercy  on  their  kind, 

But  kill  or  plunder  all  they  find. 

Then  dies  the  flash,  as  ocean's  moan 

Sends  back  a  low,  sepulchral  groan, 

Leaving  all  nature  dark  and  still, 

As  midnight  sleeping  on  the  hill; 

While  all  around  unearthly  seems, 

As  frighten' d  Hecate's  spectral  dreams  ; 

Till  bubbling,  gushing  through  each  vein, 

The  frenzied  current  turns  again, — 

My  hurrying  pulses  faster  play, 

And  conjure  up  the  dread  array, — 

Glaring  spectres,  side  by  side, 

In  mould'ring  shrouds  around  me  glide  ; 

Death's  damp  wreaths  are  round  their  hair, 

And  coffin  worms  hold  revel  there. 

Gibb'ring,  they  come  from  ancient  tombs, 

Stealing  from  low  sepulchral  glooms, 

From  vault  and  charnel  house  they  rise, 

With  bloodless  cheek,  and  hollow  eyes, 

They  point  the  finger, — shake  the  head, 

And  hold  strange  converse  round  my  bed  ; 

Together  there,  in  council  meet, 

With  coffin,  pall  and  winding  sheet, — 

Seem  waiting,  with  their  dread  array. 

To  bear  my  lifeless  form  away. 

They  stand  with  mattock,  and  with  spade,—: 

On  me  their  icy  hands  are  laid, 

While  noisome  vapors  round  me  spread, 

Bespeak  the  precincts  of  the  dead. 

E'en  then,  sweet  bird,  at  such  an  hour, 


LINES.  85 

When  reason  almost  resigns  her  power ; 
Thy  pleasant  notes  have  magic  art, 
To  soothe  my  palpitating  heart; 
They  come  as  wild,  as  free,  as  clear, 
As  though  no  pain  or  woe  were  near. 

'Tis  true,  that  friendship's  hand  is  kind, 
My  aching  brow  and  heart  to  bind; 
Beside  my  bed  a  husband  stands, 
And  anxious  children  press  my  hands  ; 
A  gentle  mother  acts  her  part, 
And  sisters,  with  each  winning  art ; 
Father  and  brothers  waiting  still, 
The  slightest  mandate  of  my  will ; 
Each  anxious,  who  shall  earliest  prove, 
The  tender  gushings  of  their  love. 

Sometimes  there  comes  a  vision  fair, 

Of  waving  groves,  and  balmy  air, 

Of  placid  skies,  serene  and  mild, 

As  slumber  stealing  o'er  a  child; 

Where  breezes  hushed  to  deep  repose, 

Sleep  in  the  bosom  of  the  rose, 

And  scarcely  lift  their  fragile  wing, 

One  dew-drop  from  the  flower  to  fling ; 

But  leave  it  for  the  sun's  warm  ray, 

To  kiss  the  pearly  tear  away. 

Pleasant  sounds  the  gushing  rill, 

That  bubbles  down  the  verdant  hill, 

Murmuring  along  its  native  glen, 

Far  from  the  fov'rish  haunts  of  men, — 

Till  kissing  soft  its  pebbly  shore, 

It  dies,  nor  ever  murmurs  more. 

And  fairy  forms  around  me  dance, — 

Now  they  retreat,  and  now  advance  ; 

Bright  wreaths  around  their  heads  they  wear, 

And  lutes  in  their  fair  hands  they  bear, 

Each  warbling  forth,  in  cadence  low, 

Their  pleasant  number,  as  they  go, 


86  LINES 

Aud  music  floats  high  in  mid  air, 

As  bands  of  angels  hover'd  there  ; 

Four  massive  chains  of  purest  gold, 

A  chrystal  island  seem  to  hold, 

Gently  waving  it  in  air, 

As  angel  spirits  lingered  there. 

Like  ocean,  in  a  summer  day, 

When  gentlest  zephyrs  with  him  play. — 

Just  curl  the  ripples  on  his  breast, 

Thea  sighing,  sink  with  him  to  rest. 

Beside  the  streams  are  pleasant  bowers 

Adorned  with  ever-grecns  and  flowers, 

Where  insects  float  with  gayest  wing, 

And  birds  with  sweetest  voices  sing, 

And  happy  spirits,  free  from  care, 

Pluck  the  wild  flowers  that  .blossom  there  ; 

Their  forms  are  beauteous  to  behold, 

White  silken  wings,  spangled  with  gold, 

Help  them  with  easy  grace  to  rise 

Prom  this  fair  world  to  yonder  skies. 

They  come  and  go  at  even  tide, 

And  sometimes  on  the  sunbeams  ride  ; 

And  when  they  wish  for  railroad  cars, 

They  ride  upon  the  shooting  stars  : 

Firmly  unite  them  in  a  train, 

And  skim  along  the  asrial  plain  ; 

No  locomotive  do  they  need, 

For  their  own  will  propels  their  speed. 

The  jEolian  harp,  with  plaintive  wail, 

Sighs  responsive  to  each  gale  ; 

Its  chords  are  strung  'mid  branching  trees, 

And  echo  to  ev'ry  passing  breeze  ; 

Gently  they  vibrate  through  the  grove, 

Touching  the  chords  of  life  and  love, 

Mixed  with  the  sounds  that  round  me  float. 

I  hear,  sweet  bird,  thy  mellow  note  ; 

For  as  in  sunshine,  as  in  rain, 

Thou,  comest  to  cheer  me  with  thy  strain. 

Few  friends  so  kind  to  come  each  day, 

To  sing  the  tedious  hours  away. 


LINES.  87 

But  pleasant  visions  vanish  soon, 

And  the  bright  sun  grows  dim  at  noon. 

The  pleasant  gales  forget  to  play, 

And  dark  and  fearful  grows  the  day. 

The  waving  island  takes  its  flight, 

Far  from  the  stretch  of  human  sight; 

High  in  'mid  air  it  seems  to  rise, 

Dissolving,  mixing  with  the  skies. 

But  ah,  it  leaves  no  vacant  place, 

For  grisly  phantoms  take  its  place. 

Thus  ever  varying  all  things  seem 

"  Fickle  as  a  changeful  dream  ;" 

And  naught  is  left  of  that  gay  train, 

My  gentle  bird,  but  thy  sweet  strain. 

0  who  can  tell  in  hours  of  ease, 

Of  fancies  wild,  and  strange  as  these  ? 

When  health  gushes  through  each  vein, 

Who  paint  the  fever  of  the  brain  ? 

Who  picture  half  the  grief  and  pain 

That  follows  pale  sickness  in  her  train? 

With  bitterest  dregs  she  fills  her  cup, 

And  makes  her  victims  drink  them  up  : 

Binds  them  to  thorny  pillows  down, 

And  frightens  sleep  with  her  stern  frown  ; 

Or  if  perchance  the  eyelids  close, 

She  gives  her  victim  no  repose, 

But  hurries  round  and  madly  screams, 

And  conjures>  up  her  wildest  dreams, 

Binds  reason  in  her  iron  chains, 

To  fancy  gives  her  longest  reins, 

And  whips  and  spurs  it,  through  the  bruin, 

Till  startling  nature  wakes  again. 

She  flings  the  rose  from  beauty's  cheek, 

And  on  it  paints  her  hectic  streak  ; 

Takes  rosy  childhood  from  his  play, 

And  gives  grim  death  the  beauteous  prey  ; 

For  ever  round  her  footsteps  steal 

To  pick  for  him  his  glutton  meal ; 

And  still  she  keeps  her  promise  good. 


LINES. 

To  pamper  him  with  hourly  food  ; 

But  yet  they  stand  there,  side  by  side, 

Death  and  the  grave,  unsatisfied. 

For  should  a  million  hourly  die, 

Twould  not  their  appetites  supply. 

But  what  seem  curses  to  our  eyes 

Are  nought  but  blessings  in  disguise  ; 

And  sickness  is  in  mercy  given 

To  wean  the  soul  from  earth  to  heaven ; 

For  were  all  bright  and  joyous  here, 

Who  would  think  on  yon,  bright  sphere  ? 

But  pleasure  pinioned  to  this  sod, 

Our  thoughts  would  never  rise  to  God. 

And  death's  the  passage  to  the  skies, 

Through  which  our  ransom' d  souls  must  rise, 

To  yonder  blissful,  bright  abode, 

Where  dwells  our  Father  and  our  God. 

But  now,  sweet  bird,  I  miss  thy  tone, 

And  feel  at  least  one  pleasure  gone ; 

A  prowling  cat,  foe  to  thy  kind, 

Thus  wrought  the  evil  she  designed. 

Thy  life  and  songs  forever  o'er, 

Thou  wilt  charm  my  ear  no  more. 

Thus  in  life's  uncertain  day, 

The  singing  birds  oft  snatch'd  away : 

And  they  who  linger  long  in  pain 

Suffered  to  linger  and  remain. 

But  God  is  just  in  his  decrees  , 

And  wisely  orders  things  like  those. 


ANGEL    COUSIN, 


THE    ANGEL    COUSIN. 


OUR  little  Mary  was  dying.  The  film  had  gath 
ered  over  those  deep  blue  orbs,  and  her  emaciated 
form  lay  white  as  polished  marble  stretched  out 
on  her  little  cradle,  around  which  were  gathered 
sympathizing  friends,  watching  the  feeble  lamp  of 
life  as  it  burned  flickering  in  its  socket.  The 
grandmother  and  aunt  had  been  summoned  from 
an  adjoining  village,  where  they  had  gone  upon  a 
visit  the  previous  morning ;  and  Emma,  a  sweet 
cousin  not  two  years  old,  stood  wondering  why 
little  Mary  did  not  smile  upon  her,  as  she  usually 
did,  for  she  had  never  looked  upon  death. 

Mary  had  ever  been  a  fragile  child.  But  her 
mother  had  clung  to  her  with  all  the  devotion  of 
a  mother's  love.  Anxiously  did  she  watch  that 
little  pale  form,  pressing  it  to  her  heart,  and  gaz 
ing  upon  it  with  fond  maternal  pride,  day  by  day, 
and  night  after  night,  unmindful  of  food  or  sleep, 
so  that  she  might  relieve  the  suffering  of  her 
precious  babe ;  and  ever  would  she  say  it  will 


90  ANGEL   COUSIN. 

soon  be  better.  One  week  succeeded  another, 
and  still  there  was  no  change  for  the  better.  But 
oh,  how  deep  was  the  fountain  of  that  mother's 
love,  and  the  feeble  wailing  of  that  dear  infant 
moved  all  its  secret  springs. 

A  physician  was  consulted,  who  spoke  hopeful 
ly,  but  nothing  seemed  to  help  her. 

Through  the  summer  months,  the  salubrity  of 
the  air  revived  her  some,  and  the  mother  would 
wander  with  her  round  the  garden,  placing  the 
sweetest  flowers  in  her  hand,  or  sitting  beneath 
the  shade  of  trees,  she  would  listen  for  hours  to 
the  murmur  of  the  summer  breeze  that  sighed 
among  the  branches,  or  the  humming  of  the  bee 
as  it  sipped  the  sweets  from  surrounding  flowers, 
delighted  that  her  darling  Mary  might  thus  inhale 
the  pure  breath  of  heaven.  And  when  those 
large,  soul  lit  orbs  were  closed  in  sweet  slumber, 
and  the  little  fragile  form  could  rest  for  a  short 
time,  the  mother  would  lift  her  heart  to  God  in 
gratitude  and  thanksgiving. 

Summer  passed  with  its  wreary  watching,  and 
her  disease  assumed  a  more  deffinite  appearance, 
and  the  mother  felt  that  Mary  must  die. 

'Twas  early  autumn ;  the  mother  purchased 
some  flannel  and  prepared  a  robe  for  her  darling, 
with  a  mother's  pride,  believing  that  that  would 
be  beneficial  to  her.  It  was  late  in  the  evening 
when  the  task  was  completed,  and  a  neat  white 
apron  was  hung  upon  the  nail  over  it,  and  the 
impatient  mother  waited  the  approach  of  day 
that  she  might  place  it  upon  her  little  form.  O 
how  strongly  did  the  bright  red  robe  contrast 


ANGEL    COUSIN.  91 

with  the  lily  whiteness  of  that  lovely  babe.  The 
tiny  hands,  as  they  peeped  from  beneath  their 
long  sleeves,  looked  like  two  white  lilies  inter 
mingled  with  the  thick  clustering  blossoms  of  the 
running  rose.  The  mother  looked  upon  her  with 
pleasure  as  she  saw  her  so  comfortably  clad,  and 
hoped  the  increased  warmth  would  improve  her 
health,  but  when  she  bore  her  to  her  father,  say 
ing,  "here  is  our  doll ;"  he  turned  away  his  dewy 
eyes,  for  he  saw  that  she  was  fading  away  from 
earth. 

"  O  Albert,"  said  Carrie,  "  does  she  not  look 
now  as  though  she  might  live  ?" 

He  could  not  bear  to  crush  the  last  hope  in  the 
heart  of  his  young  wife,  and  remained  silent. 

She  continued, 

"  No  one  gives  me  any  encouragement,  but  I 
do  feel  more  hopeful  about  her  this  morning,  for 
she  rested  better  through  the  night  than  she  has 
done  for  several  nights." 

While  she  was  yet  speaking,  a  piercing  shriek 
broke  from  the  lips  of  the  child,  every  feature 
expressed  extreme  agony,  and  the  last  ray  of  hope 
in  the  heart  of  that  young  mother  went  out  for 
ever. 

From  that  time,  her  precious  one  failed  fast. 
Vomiting  succeeded,  and  the  little  fountain  of 
strength  was  ebbing  fast  away.  Little  did  the 
poor  mother  think,  when  she  arrayed  her  little 
infant  in  her  comfortable  flannel  robe,  it  would  be 
the  last  time  she  would  be  dressed  till  she  was 
wrapped  in  her  shroud  for  the  silent  grave. 

During  the  night  her  feeble  frame  was  attacked 


92  ANGEL    COUSIN. 

by  severe  spasms,  and  shriek  after  shriek  filled  the 
heart  of  the  mother  with  unutterable  anguish- 
When  that  subsided  she  lay  cold  and  pulseless, 
with  the  damp  dews  of  death  upon  her  marble 
forehead.  Little  hope  was  entertained  of  her  sur 
viving  till  morning.  But  the  grim  messenger 
delayed  his  work,  and  morning  again  awoke  all 
nature  to  life  and  beauty. 

It  was  a  cool  day,  and  the  running  rose  bush 
that  clambered  over  the  door,  was  laden  with 
withered  flowers  that  had  lived  their  little  day 
and  faded  before  the  early  autumn  winds.  Many 
a  hardier  flower  was  blooming  brightly,  and  lift 
ing  their  heads  seemingly  in  proud  defiance  of  the 
chilling  winds  that  were  blowing  round  them. 
One  little  bud  enveloped  in  its  casing  of  green 
that  hung  waving  over  the  door,  was  perishing  in 
its  beauty,  even  like  the  little  cradled  innocent, 
that  even  then  was  passing  away  before  the  icy 
breath  of  the  dark  plumed  angel.  A  hasty  des 
patch  was  sent  for  the  maternal  grandmother  and 
aunt,  and  the  grandmother  upon  the  father's  side 
was  present,  and  together  we  watched  the  failing 
breath  of  the  dying  child.  Six  brief  months  only 
had  she  lingered  upon  earth,  and  now  she  was  to 
depart  forever.  Many,  as  they  sat  in  that  cham 
ber  of  death,  felt  how  mysterious  are  the  Provi 
dences  of  God.  T  he  dried  and  the  withered  leaf, 
the  full  blown  flower,  and  the  opening  bud  were 
there,  and  all  were  spared,  while  the  youngest 
one  of  the  group  was  passing  away  and  teaching 
the  one  great  lesson,  "  All  flesh  is  grass,  and  the 
goodliness  thereof  as  the  flower  of  the  field." 


ANGEL    COUSIN.  93 

Little  Emma  stood  gazing  upon  her  with  an 
expression  of  wonder,  and  when  told  little  Mary 
would  soon  be  an  angel,  she  raised  her  blue 
eyes  and  smilingly  said,  "  0  Emma  will  have  an 
angel  cousin  ;"  thus  teaching  a  lesson  of  faith 
and  trust. 

When  the  shadows  of  evening  gathered  around 
us,  the  doctor  came  in  and  was  surprised  to  find 
her  still  living.  As  she  had  not  swallowed  during 
the  day,  he  was  surprised  upon  applying  a  sponge 
wet  in  water  to  her  lips  to  find  that  she  swallowed 
rather  eagerly  and  without  any  difficulty  until  she 
had  taken  several  drops.  He  told  the  mother  she 
had  better  prepare  some  warm  milk  and  water, 
and  drop  a  little  of  it  into  her  mouth  as  long  as 
she  continued  to  swallow.  Hope  sprung  up  in 
her  heart,  perhaps  she  might  yet  live,  and  quick 
as  lightning  the  recollection  of  many  children 
who  had  been  snatched  from  the  very  jaws  of 
death,  passed  through  her  memory.  But  while 
she  was  making  the  preparation,  the  little  bosom 
heaved  one  gentle  sigh,  and  we  felt  that  Mary  was 
an  angel.  One  glance,  one  wild  scream,  and  the 
mother  fell  almost  fainting  into  the  arms  of  her 
husband. 

The  crimson  robe  that  was  placed  upon  her 
with  so  many  hopes  by  the  fond  hands  of  a  moth 
er,  was  removed  by  other  hands,  and  the  little 
body  was  prepared  for  the  tomb.  The  mother 
gazed  upon  her  with  tearful  eyes  and  an  aching 
heart. 

It  was  a  mild,  peaceful  Sabbath  day  when  they 
bore  her  to  the  tomb.  The  mother  placed  a  robe 


94  ANGEL   COUSIN. 

of  white  flannel  upon  her,  imprinting  as  she  did 
so,  many  kisses  on  'the  lily  arms  she  had  kissed  so 
many  times  in  all  their  warmth  of  living  loveli 
ness,  when,  with  a  smile  upon  her  lips,  and  glad 
ness  in  her  eye,  she  raised  them  to  her  mother's 
lips  to  receive  the  proffered  tokens  of  affection. 

And  so  they  placed  her  in  her  coffin,  with  a 
tiny  rosehud  in  either  hand  (for  she  would  ever 
hold  flowers  longer  than  any  thing  eise),  to  wither 
in  their  beauty  with  her,  the  pale  perishing  one. 
And  the  holy  man  read  from  the  word  of  God  the 
impressive  lesson,  "  Behold  thou  hast  made  my 
days  as  a  hand's  breadth,  and  my  age  is  as  noth 
ing  before  thee  ;"  and  offered  up  fervent  prayer 
in  behalf  of  the  afflicted  mourners,  and  little  Mary 
was  borne  to  the  silent  tomb. 

O,  who  that  listened  to  that  gentle  autumn 
breeze  that  so  softly  sighed  among  the  trees,  arid- 
fanned  the  flower  that  bent  slightly  before  it,  but 
must  feel  that  there  is  a  G-od  that  orders  the  winds 
and  the  sea,  and  rules  over  the  destinies  of  men. 

Sad  were  the  hearts  of  the  stricken  parents  as 
they  returned  to  their  little  cottage,  where  every 
thing  reminded  them  of  their  dear  lost  child. 

Emma  stood  beside  the  vacant  cradle,  and  asked 
many  questions  about  the  departed  cousin. 

"  Why  did  they  take  her  from  her  cradle  and 
put  her  in  that  little  box?"  But  was  ever  com 
forted  by  calling  her  her  angel  cousin. 

But  time  passed  on,  and  other  changes  came. 
They  left  their  cottage  home  where  this  great 
grief  had  rested  upon  them.  Another  darling 
Mary  was  given  them,  and  found  a  warm  place  in 


ANGEL   COUSIN.  95 

their  affections.  The  husband  soon  left  his  wife 
and  child,  and  sought  to  build  up  his  fortune  in  a 
distant  land,  while  the  wife  and  mother  dedicates 
her  time  to  the  care  of  the  dearly  loved  treasure 
her  heavenly  Father  has  committed  to  her  trust. 

One  brief  year  sped  rapidly  away,  and  winter 
again  returned  with  his  winds.  It  was  a  wild 
night,  the  wintry  winds  howled  fiercely  round  the 
dwelling,  and  pelted  the  snow  and  sleet  furiously 
against  the  casement,  when  Mrs.  Barlow,  after, 
attending  to  those  duties  that  make  a  New  Eng 
land  home  so  comfortable,  dropped  her  crimson 
curtains,  and  seating  herself  by  a  comfortable 
coal  fire,  commenced  preparing  her  little  Emma 
for  bed. 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  "  how  the  wind  blows,  mam 
ma  ;  what  do  poor  little  children  do  that  have  no 
home  ?" 

Said  her  mother,  "  God  tempers  the  wind,  my 
dear,  to  the  shorn  lamb." 

"  Mamma,  do  you  know  I  am  going  to  have  a 
party  and  go  to  heaven  and  invite  my  angel 
cousin  ?" 

"  Are  you,  indeed." 

"  But  mamma,  it  is  time  to  say  our  Father 
now,"  and  the  happy  mother  listened  to  her  dear 
child  as  she  clasped  her  hands  and  lisped  the 
Lord's  prayer,  and  the  appropriate  "  now  I  lay 
me,"  after  which  she  soon  dropped  into  a  peace 
ful  slumber. 

Thus  evening  was  spent  after  evening  with  the 
mother  and  her  dear  child,  happy  in  each  other's 
love. 


96  ANGEL   COUSIN. 

Winter  passed,  and  genial  spring  came  forth  in 
infantile  beauty,  unbending  the  streamlets  from 
their  icy  fetters,  and  swelling  the  buds  upon  the 
trees,  thus  making  her  early  preparation  for  fu 
ture  beauty  and  usefulness. 

Emma  awoke  early  one  Sabbath  morning,  and 
leaving  her  little  crib,  nestled  down  beside  her 
mother.  After  laying  quiet  some  time,  she  asked 
suddenly, 

"  Is  it  Sunday,  mamma?" 

Being  answered  in  the  affirmative,  she  said, 

"  It  would  be  a  beautiful  day  to  die.  Less  die 
to-  day,  papa,  mamma,  and  Emma,  and  go  to  heav 
en,  and  get  our  golden  harps ;  you  have  a  great 
one,  you  and  papa,  and  Emma  will  have  a  little 
one  like  my  little  angel  cousin." 

A  shade  of  sadness  passed  over  the  mother's 
face,  but  rested  riot  upon  it.  The  form  of  her 
darling  child  was  in  her  arms,  her  downy  cheek 
resting  against  her  own,  and  the  bright  blue  eyes 
gazing  earnestly  into  hers  with  a  volume  of  mean 
ing  in  their  azure  depths. 

"  But  you  must  get  up  now,  for  it  is  a  beautiful 
Sabbath  day,  and  we  shall  go  to  meeting  to-day, 
and  the  minister  will  pray  for  us  to  God.  O  how 
glad  I  am,"  and  the  dear  child  clapped  her  dim 
pled  hands  with  delight." 

And  so  they  went  to  church  Sabbath  after  Sab 
bath,  while  Emma  ever  seemed  to  enjoy  the  ser 
vices,  often  making  observations  upon  what  she 
heard.  She  inquired  every  day  if  it  were  Sun 
day  ;  and  Saturday  evenings  her  play  things  were 
all  carefully  laid  aside,  and  she  expressed  great 


ANGEL   COUSIN.  97 

sympathy  for  poor  little  children  that  played  upon 
that  day. 

The  story  of  the  cross  would  affect  her  to  tears, 
arid  yet  she  loved  to  dwell  upon  it,  and  it  was 
with  great  effort  her  attention  could  be  withdrawn 
from  it. 

One  rosy  twilight  hour,  when  the  departed 
beams  of  the  sun  still  lingered,  tinging  the  cur 
tains  of  the  west  with  those  bright  and  gorgeous 
hues  that  so  frequently  surround  him  at  his  set 
ting.  Emma  and  her  mother  sat  down  to  spend 
that  happy  hour  together,  and  gaze  upon  the 
scene. 

Spring  was  rapidly  advancing,  and  the  face  of 
nature  was  lovely  to  the  eye.  The  half  open 
buds  upon  the  trees  shed  sweet  perfume,  and  birds 
carolled  their  evening  songs  on  every  spray. 

But  the  things  of  earth,  beautiful  though  they 
were,  could  not  satisfy  the  mind  of  the  child,  and 
when  the  golden  stars  spangled  the  blue  canopy 
above,  she  talked  of  golden  harps,  of  her  angel 
cousin,  and  the  mysteries  of  that  unseen  world, 

"  Beyond  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres." 

Suddenly  assuming  a  more  thoughtful  expression, 
she  said, 

"  O  mamma,  what  would  you  do  if  Emma 
should  die  ?  You  would  have  to  carry  away  my 
crib  and  little  chair,  and  put  all  my  play  things 
away,  ai>d  you  would  have  no  little  Emma. 
O  mamma,  how  lonesome  you  would  be  ;"  and 
bursting  into  a  convulsive  fit  of  sobbing  she  flung 
1 


98  ANGEL    COUSIN. 

her  arms  around  her  mother's  neck  and  wept 
upon  her  bosom.  Tears  too,  dimmed  the-  moth 
er's  eyes  as  she  pressed  her  fondly  to  her  heart, 
and  kissed  away  her  tears,  while  a  painful  thought 
went  through  her  heart,  "  can  it  be  her  conver 
sation  is  prophetic  ?" 

She  soothed  her  troubled  spirit,  spoke  of  the 
joys  of  heaven,  and  after  listening  to  her  childish 
prayer,  laid  her  in  her  little  crib  with  a  sweet 
good  night  murmured  in  her  ear.  Keturnmg  to 
her  sitting  room,  long  and  sadly  she  reflected  upon 
the  words  of  her  darling  child,  and  tried  to  fathom 
their  import,  and  earnestly  did  she  pray  that 
night,  "  Our  Father,  prepare  me  for  whatsoever 
thou  art  preparing  for  me,  and  enable  me  ever  to 
say,  '  thy  will  be  done  ;'  "  and  she  retired  to  rest 
with  a  subdued  spirit,  feeling  an  indefinable  pre 
sentiment  of  coming  sorrow. 

The  glad  light  of  morning  in  a  measure  dissi 
pated  the  shadows  of  the  previous  evening,  and 
the  mother  arid  daughter  met  with  a  pleasant 
greeting, — the  little  girl  busied  about  her  play, 
while  her  mother  attended  to  her  domestic  duties. 

They  frequently  interchanged  cheerful  words. 
Emma  would  sometimes  personate  a  house-maid, 
and  assist  her  mother  in  dusting  and  arranging 
the  furniture.  But  suddenly  dropping  all,  she 
stood  by  her  side,  and  looking  earnestly  up  into 
her  face,  said, 

"  O  mamma,  you  may  have  all  my  clothes  next 
summer." 

"  Why,  Emma,"  replied  her  mother,  "  you  will 
want  them  yourself." 


ANGEL    COUSIN.  99 

"  0  no,  mamma,  I  shall  not  want  them ;  you 
may  have  my  little  brella,  and  all." 

The  mother's  cheek  blanched,  and  a  fearful 
pang  again  shot  through  her  heart. 

"  0  Emma,  doirt  talk  so,  you  will  wear  them 
all  yourself." 

"  O  no,  mamma,  you  may  have  them  ;"  and 
seating  herself  in  her  little  chair,  she  sat  long, 
looking  thoughtful  and  serious. 

It  was  morning,  bright  beautiful  morning.  The 
swelling  buds  had  burst  their  confines,  and  the 
apple,  pear,  peach,  cherry,  and  plum  trees  that 
surrounded  the  house,  were  thickly  covered  with 
sweet  scented,  many  colored  blossoms,  that  gave 
promise  of  a  rich  harvest  of  delicious  fruit.  The 
birds  warbled  their  matin  songs  in  sweet  melody; 
the  honey  bees  with  drowsy  hum,  were  sipping 
sweets  to  horde  their  winter's  store  ;  arid  every 
thing  seemed  rejoicing  in  the  light  of  that  glad 
morning.  Even  Crib,  the  great  house  dog,  lay 
sunning  himself  on  the  door  step  with  a  satisfied 
look,  snapping  at  the  flies  that  buzzed  around  him. 

l)ut  Emma  could  not  arise  to  look  out  upon  the 
joyful  face  of  nature.  She  lay  pale  and  languid 
upon  the  bed,  telling  her  mother  she  was  too  sick 
to  get  up,  that  she  could  stay  alone  while  she 
ironed  her  clothes  whicn  she  had  starched  the 
night  before  :  but  wished  her  to  shut  the  door 
to  keep  out  the  light  and  noise. 

The  mother  pursued  her  task  with  a  sad  heart, 
but  often  would  she  unclose  the  door  and  look  in 
upon  the  pale  child,  and  show  her  some  article  of 


100  ANGEL   COUSIN. 

dress  she  had  been  preparing  for  her.  She  would 
look  up  with  a  smile  and  say, 

"  O  good  mamma,  how  nice  they  look ;"  then 
closing  her  eyes  drop  into  a  deep,  heavy  sleep. 

She  grew  rapidly  worse,  and  the  doctor  who 
was  called  to  visit  her,  pronounced  it  scarlet  fever, 
that  fearful  malady  among  children,  but  thought 
her  symptoms  favorable. 

Every  attention  was  bestowed  upon  her  that 
affection  could  give  ;  but  the  disease  rapidly  in 
creased. 

The  fire  of  a  terrible  fever  was  raging  in  her 
veins,  and  drying  up  the  fountain  of  her  young 
life.  In  the  wildness  of  delirium  she  would  start 
suddenly  from  the  arms  of  her  mother,  and  pierce 
her  heart  by  begging  to  be  carried  to  her  own 
dear  mother. 

The  fifth  day  of  her  disease  it  assumed  a  more 
alarming  appearance,  her  extremities  becoming 
cold,  and  a  deathlike  palor  overspreading  her 
countenance,  accompanied  by  a  stupid,  dozing 
state.  While  laying  thus,  she  started  up,  ex 
claiming, 

"  Mamma,  if  I  die,  shall  I  go  heaven  ?" 

"  0,  yes,  my  dear,"  said  her  mother. 

"  Papa  said  I  should." 

Then  falling  into  a  fteep  stupor,  she  noticed 
nothing  for  about  two  hours,  when  looking  up 
bright  and  wishfully,  turning  her  body  towards 
her  mother,  she  said,  earnestly, 

"  Pray." 

Her  mother  commenced  the  sweet  prayer,  so 
familiar  to  her, 


ANGEL    COUSIN.  101 

"  Now,  I  lay  me." 

She  joined  her  trembling  voice  with  hers,  and 
lisped  again  the  words  she  had  loved  so  well. 
She  appeared  exhausted  with  the  effort,  and  turn 
ing  away  her  little  head,  and  closing  her  weary 
eyes,  lay  apparently  asleep  about  five  minutes, 
when  arousing  herself,  with  a  sweet  expression  of 
countenance,  she  gently  murmured, 

"  Amen." 

"  O,"  said  the  mother,  "  perhaps  that  is  Emma's 
last  prayer." 

'•  It  may  be,"  said  the  grandmother  ;  "  and  how 
vividly  we  should  remember  it,  if  it  should  be." 

Even  so — that  was  the  last  note  of  praise  that 
fell  from  those  infant  lips  upon  earth.  But  often 
does  it  start  upon  memory's  ear,  during  the  silence 
of  the  midnight  hour,  and  seem  like  gentle  whis 
perings  from  the  spirit  land,  and  bring  back  re 
collections  at  once  painful  and  pleasant  to  the 
soul. 

She  slept  till  the  twilight  hour,  when  she  wished 
her  mother  to  carry  her  to  the  window.  Oh,  hap 
pily  were  those  hours  usually  spent,  when  the 
duties  of  the  day  had  all  been  performed,  and  the 
quiet  shades  of  evening  gathered  round  their 
dwelling.  Often  was  their  talk  of  heaven.  O, 
they  were  happy  hours  !  but  they  flew  by  upon 
golden  wings,  leaving  their  deep  impress  on  that 
fond  mother's  heart. 

As  she  sat  with  her  that  evening,  looking  upon 
the  varied  prospect  that  was  spread  out  before 
them,  no  word  passed  her  lips.  Her  mother  point- 
SB 


102  ANGEL    COUSIN. 

ed  to  the  green  grass,  the  trees  covered  with  clus 
tering  bossoms,  the  river,  hurrying  on  to  join  old 
Ocean,  reflecting  the  mild  radiance  of  the  .-etting 
sun  on  its  placid  surface  ;  and  to  the  busy  hum  of 
life,  as  people  hurried  to  and  fro  in  the  village 
that  lay  distinctly  spread  out  before  them  ;  but 
nothing  could  elicit  a  word  from  her,  till  turning 
her  head  wearily,  and  closing  her  eyes  for  the  last 
time  upon  the  beautiful  world,  with  its  deep  blue 
sky,  and  its  rich  sunset  dyes,  she  said, 

"  0,  mamma,  lay  me  in  my  little  bed  ;"  and 
after  noticing  apparently  every  object  in  the  room, 
she  closed  her  eyes  and  lay  in  a  deep  stupor  for 
four  successive  days  and  nights.  Her  face  was 
pale  as  marble,  and  incoherent  words  escaped  her 
lips.  Sometimes  she  would  murmur, 

"  Oh,  carry  me  home — carry  me  home." 

When  she  revived  from  the  stupor,  at  times  it 
was  agonizing  to  witness  her  suffering.  But  no 
word  escaped  her  lips. 

Everything  that  medical  aid  could  do  was  done, 
and  every  attention  was  paid  to  the  suffering  child 
by  her  parents  and  friends,  and  every  effort  used 
to  stay  the  disease.  But  "  he  who  seeth  not  as 
man  seeth,"  willed  it  otherwise,  and  all  proved 
unavailing.  On  the  fifteenth  day  the  rash  came 
on  again  ;  the  throat  swelled  badly,  and  the  suf 
ferings  of  the  dear  little  one  were  extreme.  Even 
then,  it  was  evident  she  knew  her  friends,  and 
many  were  the  tokens  of  affection  bestowed  upon 
them  as  they  watched  beside  her  couch,  and  min 
istered  to  her  necessities. 

Often  would  she  reach  up  her  little  emaciated 


ANGEL   COUSIN.  103 

hands,  and  placing  them  upon  her  mother's  cheeks, 
press  them  tenderly.  It  seemed  to  soothe  her, 
when  her  mother  would  lay  her  head  upon  her 
pillow  beside  her,  and  take  her  little  wasted  hand 
in  hers.  And  when  she  sang  to  her,  in  a  low, 
trembling  voice,  her  little  favorite  hymn, 

"  There  is  a  happy  land,  far,  far  away,1* 

she  lay  quiet,  and  seemed  listening  with  much  at 
tention,  raising  one  little  hand  three  times,  then 
laying  it  fondly  round  her  mother's  neck.  Long, 
during  that  day,  did  the  grief-stricken  mother 
breathe  sad,  melancholy  music  into  the  ears  of  her 
dying  child. 

Towards  evening  that  restless  state,  so  common 
in  cholera  infantum,  came  on,  accompanied  at 
every  breath  by  a  groan,  which  the  doctor  said 
must  soon  wear  her  out. 

He  gave  her  an  opiate,  hoping  to  relieve  the 
distress. 

Towards  midnight  she  dropped  into  a  little 
slumber,  and  the  mother,  weary  with  watching, 
retired,  leaving  the  father  and  a  sister,  to  take  care 
of  her. 

It  was  Sabbath  morning ;  the  gray  dawn  was 
just  streaking  the  east  with  the  earliest  beams  of 
day,  when  the  father,  who  sat  a  little  distance 
from  his  child,  thought  he  saw  her  gasp  for  breath. 
He  sprang  to  her  side,  and  saw  too  truly,  that  that 
pale  visitant  from  the  spirit  land,  that  comes  to 
us  but  once,  was  dealing  with  his  child.  The  mo 
ther  and  grandmother,  who  had  watched  over  her 


104  ANGEL    COUSIN. 

so  unweariedly,  soon  reached  the  bed  ;  but  the 
brittle  thread  of  life  was  snapped,  and  the  pure 
spirit  had  passed  away,  with  the  pale  messenger, 
to  the  spirit  land.  There  were  no  loud  lamenta 
tions.  The  mother  pressed  her  cheeks  between 
her  hands,  exclaiming, 

"  Oh,  Emma." 

Then  taking  her  little  pulseless  hand  in  her  own, 
seated  herself  beside  her  on  the  bed,  calm  and 
tearless. 

The  father,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands, 
sat  motionless  ;  but  no  murmur  escaped  his  lips. 
He  had  learned  submission  to  the  divine  will,  and 
was  comforted  in  his  hour  of  need. 

And  brighter,  and  brighter  grew  the  beams  of 
that  holy  Sabbath  day.  That  day  the  dear  child 
had  loved  so  well.  She  had  loved  to  enter  the 
earthly  temple,  and  join  in  the  hymns  of  thanks 
giving  and  praise  that  arose,  like  sweet  incense, 
upon  their  sacred  altars.  And  now,  with  the  early 
dawning  of  that  sacred  day,  she  had  passed  for 
ever  from  earth,  to  join  the  pure  throng  of  wor 
shippers  before  the  throne  of  God.  The  smile  of 
heaven  was  upon  her  face,  as  though  the  light  of 
the  happy  spirit  still  irradiated  it. 

Loving  hands  placed  her  gently  in  the  shroud 
and  prepared  her  for  the  tomb. 

As  that  quiet  twilight  hour  came  on,  who  can, 
picture  the  agony  of  the  bereaved  mother's  heart? 
She  stole  softly  into  the  chamber  of  death,  and 
taking  the  little  cold  waxen  hand  in  hers,  bent 
fondly  over,  and  kissed  the  marble  forehead.  It 
was  their  favorite  hour— the  one  they  ever  spent 


ANGEL    COUSIN.  105 

together,  and  those  blue  eyes  were  ever  then  fixed 
upon  her,  as  she  read  the  word  of  G-od,  repeated 
infantile  hymns,  or  murmured  the  evening  prayer. 
But  now  those  dear  eyes  were  forever  shut  on 
earth,  but  open  to  the  more  exalted  beauties  of 
heaven. 

As  she  recalled  the  past,  in  that  solemn  place, 
she  weighed  well  her  conduct  towards  her  child, 
and  asked  herself  if  there  had  been  aught  to  tar 
nish  the  purity  of  that  spirit  that  had  just  entered 
the  portals  of  heaven ;  and  earnestly  did  she  be 
seech  her  Heavenly  Father  to  forgive  all  that  was 
amiss,  and  cleanse  her  from  all  sin,  that  she  might 
be  prepared  for  a  reunion  in  a  better  world. 

It  was  autumn,  when  little  Mary  was  placed 
in  the  tomb,  and  all  things  spoke  of  death  and  de 
cay.  It  was  now  the  last  days  of  spring,  when 
the  trees  had  put  on  their  robes  of  deeper  green, 
and  all  nature  spoke  of  a  resurrection  from  the 
dead,  when  her  little  coffin  was  taken  from  the 
tomb  and  placed  in  the  hearse,  to  be  buried  in  the 
same  grave  with  her  cousin  Emma.  Emma  lay 
beautiful  in  death,  looking  almost  like  a  thing  of 
life,  with  a  smile  still  lingering  upon  her  lips,  while 
fresh  half-blown  flowers  were  placed  in  her  icy 
fingers,  and  strewed  around  the  coffin,  soon  to 
wither  and  fade,  with  that  frail  child  of  clay. 
Mary  had  decayed  with  the  pure  buds  she  held  in 
her  hands,  and  "  dust  thou  art  and  unto  dust  thou 
must  return,"  was  legibly  written  on  both. 

The  same  mourning  circle  convened,  and  bore 
their  loved  ones  to  the  place  of  graves.  The  sis 
ters  stood  side  by  side,  as  the  coffins  were  let 

5E 


106  ANGEL   COUSIN. 

down  into  the  earth,  and  mingled  their  tears  to 
gether.  It  was  a  melancholy  sight,  and  spoke 
loudly  of  the  uncertainty  of  human  life. 

The  man  of  hoary  hairs  stood  over  the  graves 
of  the  tender  infant,  and  felt  sensibly,  that  while 
the  "  young  may  die,  the  old  must  die." 

The  parents  cast  a  long  lingering  look  into  the 
greedy  grave  that  was  forever  to  hide  their  treas 
ure  from  their  sight,  then  turned  sadly  away  to 
walk  again  the  path-way  of  human  life,  and  re 
ceive  the  portion  their  heavenly  Father  may  see  fit 
to  meet  out  to  them. 

Sweet  is  their  place  of  rest.  A  weeping  wil 
low  droops  over  their  grave,  and  the  flowers  of 
summer  shed  their  perfume  and  scatter  their  leaves 
around.  Night  winds  sigh  a  mournful  requiem, 
and  gentle  zephyrs  fan  the  leaves  of  the  weeping 
willow,  and  murmur  among  its  branches.  Two 
white  marble  slabs  stand  at  the  head  of  the  little 
heaped  up  mound,  and  point  to  the  traveller's  eye 
the  place  where  rest  the  remains  of  the  angel 
cousins. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   AT   THE    CLOSE    OF    1842. 


HARK  !  I  hear  the  midnight  bell, 
Pealing  forth  its  funeral  knell ; 
Now  its  tones  sound  loud  and  clear — 
Now  low  and  dirge-like,  strike  the  ear. 
Solemn  and  slow,  they  seem  to  fall, 
Upon  the  listening  ear  of  all. 

And  lo  !  extended  on  the  bier, 

The  form  of  the  departed  year 

Closely  wrapt,  in  snowy  shroud, 

Hastening  to  join  the  sable  crowd 

Of  years — that  passed  before  the  flood, 

And  left  their  pathway  stained  with  blood ; 

For  oh,  what  horrors  must  appear, 

Written  on  each  departed  year  ? 

The  fearful  tales  each  will  disclose, 

The  God  of  Heaven  only  knows. 

Ardent  and  bright  this  year  arose, — 
Pictured  its  joys  and  hid  its  woes, 
Painted  gay  paths  bestrown  with  flowers, 
And  balmy  skies,  and  sunny  hours, 
Promised  some  pleasures,  ever  new, 
If  pleasures'  path  we  would  pursue. 
But  soon  the  path  became  uptorn, 
Instead  of  flowers  we  find  the  thorn  : 
And  yonder  sky,  so  blue  and  deep, 
Where  golden  stars  their  vigils 
6E 


108  LINES. 

Was  soon  by  frowning  clouds  concealed  ; 
And  lightnings  flash'd,  and  thunders  peal'd 
The  golden  sun  soon  sank  to  rest, 
Behind  the  curtains  of  the  west, 
And  left  to  darkness  his  domain, 
With  midnight  howling  o'er  the  plain; 
And  those  who  followed  her  gay  train, 
Found  pleasure's  path  to  end  in  pain. 

For  who  e'er  drank  without  alloy, 

From  the  painted  cup  of  joy  ? 

Just  as  we  seize  some  radiant  prize, 

That  long  has  danc'd  before  our  eyes, 

And  raise  the  goblet  to  our  lip, 

Its  honied  promises  to  sip. 

Some  lurking  scorpion's  venom'd  dart 

Sends  poison  rankling  to  the  heart. 

But  now  the  year  its  race  has  run, 

Its  promises  and  labors  done  ; 

The  grave  has  clos'd  o'er  its  remains, 

'Till  the  last  trumpet  breaks  its  chains  ; 

Then  must  its  mysteries  be  unroll'd, 

And  all  its  hidden  deeds  be  told. 

How  many  hail'd  last  New  Year's  day, 
That  slumber  now  in  fellow  clay. 
This  too,  perhaps,  may  be  our  doom 
Before  another  year  shall  come. 

The  things  of  earth  may  fade  away, 
And  wo  bo  turned  to  lifeless  clay ; 
The  roving  eyo  forget  the  light, 
And  dreamless  sleep  in  death's  dark  night. 
The  pallid  lips  may  cease  to  speak : 
The  coffin  worm  feed  on  the  cheek ; 
The  grassy  turf  o'er  us  be  spread, 
While  earth's  cold  lap  supports  the  head  : 
And  heav'ns  own  dews  the  hillock  lave, 
And  night  winds  sigh  around  our  grave. 


LINES.  109 


That  narrow  house  may  be  our  homo, 
Whose  only  mark  is  one  grey  stone. 
But  Christ  by  entering  in  the  tomb, 
Has  dissipated  all  its  gloom, 
And  shed  a  bright,  benignant  ray, 
That  opens  on  eternal  day  ; 
And  those  that  sleep  in  His  embrace, 
Among  the  just  shall  find  a  place. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

ON     THE     NEW     YEAR,      1853. 


HARK  !  I  hear  the  clarion  shrill 
Winding  up  the  icy  hill, 
And  aloud  the  bugle  horn 
Proclaims  another  year  is  born. 
Merry  voices  in  the  train, 
Loudly  sound  it  o'er  the  plain, 
And  the  joyful  notes  I  hear, 
Are  wishes  for  a  happy  year. 

All  come  with  faces  bright  and  gay, 
None  seem  to  think  of  yesterday ; 
None  seem  to  hear  the  passing  bell, 
That  bade  the  dying  year  farewell. 
None  seem  to  think  this  infant  year, 
Which  now  so  gay  and  bright  appears, 
Will  soon  by  dark  oblivion's  wave 
Be  chas'd  into  the  silent  grave. 

But  all  seem  forming  airy  dreams 
On  future  hopes  and  future  schemes, 
Though  other  years  have  prov'd  untrue 
It  will  not  bfi  so  with  the  new. 
Joy  beams  upon  the  face  of  all ; 
Some  meet  within  the  festive  hall, 
Where  music  trills  her  gayest  note  ; 
And  fairy  forms  in  circles  float, 
And  all  seem  feasting  with  delight 
Upon  the  pleasures  of  the  night, 


LINES.  HI 

None  thinks  upon  the  grief  or  pain, 
That  soon  must  follow  in  their  train, — 
The  coffin   shroud,  and  death's  cold  pall, 
That  must  so  soon  be  flung  o'er  all ; 
But  yet,  in  that  gay  circle  there, 
We  can  detect  corroding  care, 
Can  plainly  see,  in  sparkling  eyes, 
Sorrow,  clad  in  gay  disguise, — 
Trying  happy  to  appear, 
To  usher  in  another  year. 

Tis  ever  thus,  the  heedless  throng, 

That  meet  in  revelry  and  song, — 

Must  ever  feel  within  the  breast 

An  aching  void  ;  while  those  possessed 

Of  pure  Keligion,  may  enjoy 

Joys  nothing  earthly  can  destroy 


THE    UNHAPPY    MARRIAGE. 


THE   UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE. 


"  HANNAH,  it  will  not  do,"  said  Captain  Cur 
rier  to  his  eldest  daughter,  a  neat,  quiet  looking 
girl  about  eighteen,  who  sat  sewing  by  a  window. 
"  I  say  Hannah,"  continued  he  sternly,  as  her 
eyes  met  his,  "  it  will  never  do  for  you  to  throw 
yourself  away  upon  that  miserable  scapegrace 
that  has  visited  you  so  often  of  late." 

The  blood  mounted  in  torrents  to  her  cheeks 
as  she  replied, 

"Why,  father,  you  surely  cannot  mean  William 
Lawrence  ?" 

"And  who  else  should  I  mean?  He  is  not 
worth  a  single  iota,  and  what  is  more,  he  is  never 
like  to  be." 

"  True,  he  is  not  rich,  but  he  is  industrious,  and 
with  his  excellent  habits  I  have  no  fears  on 
that  account." 

"Oh,  you  have  not,  have  you,"  said  her  father, 
almost  fiercely,  "  but  I  tell  you  Miss,  it  will  never 
do,  so  you  may  think  the  matter  over  at  your 


THE    UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE.  113 

leisure,  and  settle  the  affair.,  I  hope,  without  any 
farther  interference  on  my  part." 

She  raised  her  eyes  timidly  to  her  father's  and 
said, 

"  I  think,  sir,  you  will  be  obliged  to  finish  the 
work  if  it  is  ever  done ;  my  faith  is  plighted  to 
William,  and  you  know,  father,  I  cannot  break 
my  word." 

This  candid  avowal  but  added  "  fuel  to  the 
flame "  of  the  enraged  father,  and  he  sternly 
said, 

"  My  commands  are  upon  you,  and  I  expect 
you  to  obey  me." 

"  But  father,"  began  the  trembling  girl, 

"  There  is  no  but  in  the  case.  But  I  will  leave 
you  now,  for  I  see  your  milk  and  water  looking 
gentleman  is  coming,  and  I  expect,  Hannah,  it 
will  be  the  last  time  his  shadow  will  ever  darken 
my  doors." 

As  he  passed  out  at  one  door  the  young  man 
entered  at  the  opposite,  and  fixed  his  handsome 
eyes,  with  a  searching  glance,  upon  Hannah,  as 
he  gave  her  his  cordial  greeting,  saying, 

"  Are  you  ill  V" 

"  0  no,  William,  I  am  not  ill,  but  let  us  walk 
out  into  the  garden ;  perhaps  the  cool  winds  of 
heaven  will  cool  the  fever  upon  my  brow." 

And  so  they  wandered  forth  among  the  flowers, 
to  breathe  the  air  that  comes  alike  to  the  children 
of  affluence  and  pinching  want.  They  reached  a 
seat  where  they  had  spent  many  happy  hours, 
over  which  climbing  honeysuckles  shed  their 
perfume,  and  many  bright  flowers  danced  in  the 


114  THE   UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE. 

wind,  or  drank  the  pure  dews  of  night  as  the 
pitying  angel  wept  upon  their  bosoms.  Hannah 
was  upon  her  accustomed  seat,  and  the  eyes  of 
her  lover  were  fixed  upon  her  with  that  fond  ex 
pression  she  so  well  understood,  and  which  found 
a  ready  response  in  her  youthful  heart.  Now  that 
heart  was  almost  bursting  with  its  agony  of  grief; 
but  William  was  beside  her,  whispered  words  of 
tenderness  and  hope  wTere  murmured  in  her  ear, 
and  how  could  she  break  the  spell?  how  could 
she  speak  of  the  gathering  storm  ?  The  com 
mands  of  a  stern  father  were  upon  her,  and  she 
knew  his  indomitable  spirit  wTould  never  swerve 
one  inch  from  his  determination. 

They  sat  till  the  family  clock  struck  nine  ere 
Hannah  could  muster  courage  to  announce  her 
father's  decision,  and  related  the  conversation  that 
had  just  occurred.  William  was  perfectly  aston 
ished,  as  he  replied, 

"  You  certainly  cannot  yield  to  his  commands  ? 
Hannah,  the  happiness  of  my  life  depends  upon 
our  union." 

"  Well,  we  will  keep  quiet  a  while  and  see 
what  further  light  we  can  get  upon  the  subject.  I 
have  a  fearful  foreboding  that  the  haughty,  stern 
looking  stranger  who  has  been  here  so  much  of 
late,  has  something  to  do  with  it.  He  has  been 
officious  in  his  attention  to  me,  and  I  have  trem 
bled  when  I  have  seen  his  savage  eyes  fixed  upon 
me  with  such  a  peculiar  expression.  And  so  we 
will  be  quiet  and  wait  the  moving  of  the  waters." 

The  following  afternoon  Captain  Currier  called 


THE  UNHAPPY  MARRIAGE.         115 

his  daughter  into  the  parlor,  and  closing  the  door, 
said  abruptly, 

"  Well,  Hannah,  I  'spose  you  have  squared  up 
accounts  with  William,  and  are  now  ready  to  en 
ter  a  new  firm.  There  is  a  noble  chance  for  you 
my  gal.  The  rich  Mr.  Benson  has  offered  his 
hand  to  you  in  marriage." 

"Impossible!  Why,  father,  is  not  he  an  In 
dian?" 

"•  No  more  of  an  Indian  than  you  are;  to  be 
sure  he  is  not  quite  as  white  as  your  milk  and 
water  Billy." 

"  I  should  think  he  was  milk  and  molasses,  at 
least,  and  the  largest  part  molasses,  but  without 
its  sweetness." 

"  Well,  be  that  as  it  may,  I'm  thinking  his 
thousands  will  make  the  dose  quite  palatable  at 
any  rate.  You  must  know,  Miss,  my  affairs  at 
present  are  in  an  embarrassed  state,  and  he  pro 
poses  taking  that  large  tract  of  land  adjoining 
mine,  and  giving  me  a  generous  price  upon  it, 
provided  you  will  become  his  wife.  He  is  going 
to  lay  out  the  ground  like  a  garden,  build  a  prince 
ly  mansion,  and  you  are  to  be  its  mistress." 

"  O  father,  would  you  have  me  fall  down  and 
worship  the  golden  calf?" 

"  But  you  must  obey  me  ;  I  cannot,  I  must  not 
be  frustrated  in  this  arrangement." 

"  But  why,  father,  cannot  you  and  he  complete 
your  bargain  without  sacrificing  my  happiness  on 
the  shrine  of  Mammon  ?" 

"  No,  he  will  leave  the  country  immediately 
unless  you  consent  to  marry  him,  and  this,  with 


116         THE  UNHAPPY  MARRIAGE. 

my  other  property,  is  mortgaged,  arid  cannot  be 
redeemed,  and  beggary  stares  me  in  the  face. 
This  step,  and  this  only,  can  save  me.  I  told 
William  the  arrangement  as  he  was  marching 
hurriedly  away  this  morning  with  Colonel  Som- 
er's  regiment,  who  were  ordered  to  reach  the 
eastern  border  of  the  State  as  quick  as  possible, 
as  they  fear  an  attack  from  the  French  and  In 
dians  in  that  quarter.  Mr.  Benson  is  eager  to 
have  the  marriage  take  place  as  soon  as  possible." 

Hannah  sat  like  one  in  a  dream  for  a  moment, 
when  she  said, 

"  Father,  has  nature  no  voice  to  plead  for  me?" 

"  Child,  it  is  your  good  I  am  seeking.  How 
can  you  ever  expect  happiness  with  William  ?  It 
takes  all  he  can  earn  to  support  his  sick  mother, 
and  let  me  tell  you  your  chance  will  be  a  small 
one.  Mr.  Benson's  pockets  are  lined  with  gold, 
and  he  rides  the  best  horse  that  the  country  can 
produce ;  and  let  me  tell  you,  your  love,  as  you 
call  it,  never  yet  put  anything  into  the  pot  or 
kept  it  boiling,  and  it  is  well  said,  '  when  pover 
ty  stalks  in  at  the  door  love  creeps  out  at  the  key 
hole.'  " 

"  Well,  father,"  said  Hannah,  rising  up  at  her 
full  height,  "  if  I  am  any  judge  in  the  case,  that 
man  is  unprincipled,  remorseless,  and  a  villian." 

"I  think  you  are  no  judge.  What  can  you 
know  about  it? 

"  Well,  you  chose  to  put  the  business  in  my 
hands,  and  I  have  arranged  it  to  my  own  liking. 
Now  you  must  be  prepared  by  one  week  from  this 
day  to  become  Mrs.  Benson." 


THE    UNHAPPY    MARRIAGE.  117 

So  saying  he  left  the  room,  to  bluster  about 
Capulet  like,  to  hurry  the  coming  event. 

It  was  soon  known  by  every  member  of  the 
family,  that  great  preparations  were  expected  for 
the  coming  wedding.  Deeds  were  drawn  up,  the 
land  transferred  into  the  hands  of  Mr.  Benson  at 
an  extravagant  price,  a  large  house  erected  upon 
it,  and  many  carpenters  employed  to  finish  one 
room,  and  a  bed-room,  so  that  they  could  occupy 
it  till  the  rest  could  be  completed. 

And  so  the  shuttle  was  played  to  weave  the 
woof  into  the  meshy  warp  that  had  thus  been 
spread. 

Hannah  wept  long  after  her  father  left  her. 
She  felt  convinced  it  was  through  his  means  Wil 
liam  was  pressed  to  go  with  Colonel  Somers,  and 
her  heart  rebelled  against  his  tyranny  ;  and  noth 
ing  would  have  induced  her  to  yield  but  her 
father's  assurance  that  that  alone  could  save  him 
from  beggary.  And  she  felt  she  would  make  the 
sacrifice  for  her  father's  sake. 

As  she  entered  the  kitchen,  Sarah,  the  black 
slave,  met  her  with, 

"  Why,  Miss  Hanner,  'pears  to  me  I  should 
not  like  to  swap  Mr.  Lawrence  for  Mr.  Benson  ; 
'pears  he  aint  hafF  so  perticler  like." 

"  It  is  my  father's  wish,  and  I  suppose  it  must 
be  complied  with,"  and  she  passed  out  of  the 
room  to  bury  her  feelings  in  her  own  bosom,  and 
nerve  herself  for  the  coming  trial. 

"  Massa  is  doing  good  business,  Sambo,"  said 
Sarah  to  a  black  man  that  sat  preparing  some 
peas  to  plant,  "  he  selling  tu  gals  at  once." 


118  THE    UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  but  I  guess  Miss  Hanner  hab  no 
choice,"  and  be  rolled  up  the  \vhites  of  his  eyes, 
and  fetched  a  pompous  nod  of  the  head,  as  he 
glanced  at  his  sable  companion. 

"  That  does  make  some  differ ;  now  tree  year 
don't  seem  bery  long  when  we  bese  so  much  wid 
one  tother." 

"  The  tree  year  most  out  now,  white  man  buy 
his  gal  wid  gold ;  but  poor  nigger  hab  to  work 
hard  for  his'n.  Well,  we  be  free  then." 

The  conversation  was  closed  by  Capt.  Currier's 
sharp  voice  calling  Sambo  to  bring  the  peas.  He 
hastily  obeyed  the  summons,  as  he  did  so  display 
ing  by  his  open  smile  his  ivory  teeth  to  Sarah, 
who  returned  the  compliment  in  a  very  satisfac 
tory  manner. 

All  was  bustle,  stir,  and  preparation  during  the 
week.  Dress  makers,  milliners,  and  almost  all 
classes  of  people  were  called  into  requisition. 

Mr.  Benson  strove  hard  to  play  the  agreeable  ; 
but  Hannah  could  scarcely  endure  him.  And  the 
week  passed  away,  as  all  weeks  will  pass,  wheth 
er  laden  with  joy  or  sorrow ;  and  the  pale  bride 
stood  trembling  by  the  altar  of  Hymen,  and  the 
solemn  words  were  passed  that  united  the  destinies 
of  two  immortal  spirits,  and  the  recording  angel 
registered  them  in  heaven. 

After  partaking  of  a  sumptuous  dinner,  accord 
ing  to  the  custom  of  those  days,  they  entered  a 
splendid  carriage  Mr.  Benson  had  purchased  for 
the  occasion,  and  with  Sambo  for  a  driver  and 
Sarah  for  a  waiting  maid,  set  out  upon  their  wed 
ding  tour.  But  we  will  not  accompany  them. 


THE   UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE.  119 

Suffice  it  to  say,  it  was  productive  of  little  hap 
piness  to  the  new  married  pair.  Sambo  and  Sarah 
enjoyed  it  very  well,  as  she  often  rode  with  him 
upon  the  driver's  box,  and  they  thus  had  a  delight 
ful  view  of  the  country. 

On  their  return,  their  house  was  ready  for  their 
reception,  or  at  least  so  that  they  could  live  in  it 
while  the  other  part  was  finished. 

Hannah  had  frequently  been  surprised  by  her 
husband's  frequent  potations  of  brandy  during 
their  journey,  and  his  whole  bearing  had  been 
haughty  and  reserved. 

They  had  been  at  home  but  a  short  time,  when, 
after  being  absent  one  night  and  day,  Mr.  Benson 
returned  home  with  a  dark  frown  resting  upon 
his  countenance  ;  he  slammed  the  door,  kicked 
every  chair  that  came  in  his  way,  and  stamping 
about,  went  and  dismissed  all  his  hands,  took  an 
other  dram  from  his  brandy  bottle,  and  sat  moodi 
ly  down  by  the  fire,  grumbling  because  supper 
was  not  on  the  table. 

Poor  Hannah  pressed  her  hand  upon  her  throb 
bing  heart,  and  struggled  with  the  tears  that  rose 
to  her  eyes  and  seemed  scalding  her  very  eye  balls 
with  their  burning  heat.  There  was  a  choking 
sensation  in  her  throat,  but  she  swallowed  it  back, 
and  prepared  supper  in  the  best  manner  she  was 
capable.  Her  husband  seated  himself  at  the  ta 
ble,  took  a  biscuit,  looked  at  it,  flung  it  back 
upon  the  plate,  called  his  tea  dish  water,  and 
throwing  back  his  chair  hastily,  left  the  table. 

But  why  dwell  upon  the  sorrowful  years  they 
spent  together  ?  He  ever  came  like  a  dark  shad- 


120  THE    UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE:. 

ow  upon  the  sunlight  of  home.  Children  gather 
ed  around  their  fire  side,  but  there  was  no  gentle 
corner  for  them  in  his  heart. 

His  only  son  was  ever  with  him  like  his  shadow, 
drinking  in  his  precepts,  practising  his  examples, 
breathing  his  oaths,  domineering  over  his  mother 
and  sisters,  and  a  terror  to  the  neighborhood. 

His  father  telling  him,  he  was  in  hopes  to  see 
the  time  he  would  dance  on  Dr.  Somers'  grave,  as 
he  hated  him  with  a  perfect  hatred,  because  he 
had  been  his  wife's  attending  physcian,  when  she 
had  been  sick  during*  the  years  they  had  lived  to 
gether. 

James,  for  such  was  the  name  of  the  son,  was 
instructed  to  hate  everybody  that  came  in  his  way, 
and,  of  course,  was  hated  by  every  one. 

The  money  that  came  by  gambling,  went  in  the 
same  way,  and  poverty — abject  poverty — was  now 
an  inmate  of  their  dwelling. 

The  house  remained  unfinished ;  the  frame, 
which  had  never  been  clap-boarded,  had  gone  to 
decay  in  a  great  measure  ;  and  when  one  meal 
was  obtained,  they  scarcely  knew  where  another 
would  come  from. 

Discord  reigned  among  them.  Hannah  was  a 
wreck  of  her  former  self.  She  had  strung  up  her 
patience  to  its  utmost  tension,  and  would  often 
bear  the  scorn  and  abuse  of  her  husband  in  sor 
rowful  silence. 

But  this  state  of  things  passed  away,  and  when 
her  children  shared  in  her  sufferings,  the  bitter 
waters  were  stirred  in  their  deep  fountains,  and1 
she  became  a  worn  woman,  with  a  hasty  spirit. 


THE   UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE.  121 

The  biting  retort  was  now  often  upon  her  lips,  and 
she  became  in  a  true  sense  of  the  word,  what 
might  well  be  called  a  scold. 

One  gloomy  fall  day,  when  the  sighing  winds 
shook  the  mellow  apples  from  the  trees  in  the 
large  thrifty  orchard,  that  stood  before  the  house, 
casting  so  deep  a  shade  that  the  rays  of  the  sun 
could  scarcely  penetrate  it,  and  the  old  house 
looked  blacker  for  the  rain  that  had  fallen  upon 
it,  Mr.  Benson  was  seized  for  debt,  and  conveyed 
to  jail. 

During  his  absence  Mrs.  Benson  purchased  some 
apples  of  the  man  that  then  owned  the  orchard, 
and  dried  them,  hoping  to  obtain  some  needful 
clothing  for  herself  and  children.  She  cleaned  her 
ceiling,  whitewashed  the  plastering,  and  made 
everything  about  the  house  look  as  comfortable  as 
possible,  and  enjoyed  the  privilege,  at  least,  of 
doing  as  she  pleased,  without  being  found  fault 
with,  which  was  to  her  a  great  luxury,  as  her  ex 
pressed  wishes  were  generally  vetoed  at  once. 

She  was  a  true  mother,  and  strove  to  bring  her 
children  up  in  the  paths  of  truth  and  honesty 
But  there  was  such  an  opposing  current,  and  such 
frequent  bickerings  between  herself  and  husband, 
that  they  caught  the  infection,  and  seemed  to  live 
only  to  torment  each  other. 

"  0,"  said  Mrs.  Benson  one  day,  to  her  sister 
Sarah,  who  was  spending  a  day  with  her,  "  this 
is  the  princely  mansion  father  promised  me,  as  a 
reward  for  giving  up  all  my  cherished  hopes. 
Poor  William  has  lost  his  dear  mother,  I  hear." 

"Yes,  she  died  one  day  last  week;  she  liked 
IF 


122  THE   UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE. 

much  where  they  lived,  and  after  William  came 
into  possession  of  his  uncle's  princely  fortune,  her 
life  was  spent  in  ease  and  affluence.  He  is  likely 
to  become  one  of  the  richest  men  in  the  country, 
and  he  is  loved  for  his  kindness  and  respected  for 
his  virtues.  Your  marriage  doomed  him  to  celi 
bacy." 

A  shade  rested  for  a  moment  upon  Mrs.  Ben 
son's  brow,  as  she  said, 

"  0,  these  dark  brown  years  have  brought  no 
joy  to  me  in  their  course.  How  I  have  lived  I 
scarcely  know.  How  dim-sighted  is  human  rea 
son?  The  poor  William  is  now  the  rich  man,  and 
the  rich  Benson  is  the  poor  one.  Could  father 
know  the  misery  I  have  undergone,  he  would 
think  his  comforts  dearly  purchased  ;  but  he  is 
gone  from  earth,  and  I  will  not  reproach  his 
memory  ;  but,  oh,  it  has  been  hard — very  hard." 

"  But  come,  Sarah,  come  into  this  old  room 
with  me,  and  help  me  pack  my  dried  apple  for 
market.  Is'nt  it  nice  ?  I  took  great  pains  with 
it,  as  I  wished  it  to  fetch  the  first  price  in  the 
market.  I  am  going  to  get  me  a  new  cheap  calico 
dress.  This  old  patched  faded  thing  is  the  only 
one  I  have. 

"  I  have  wove  a  great  deal  this  fall,  and  I  think 
what  I  shall  get  for  that  and  the  apple,  will  fix  the 
children  and  me  up  quite  comfortably.  The  chil 
dren  paid  for  these  apples,  by  picking  up  apples 
for  Mr.  Lambert,  and  he  says  he  shall  want  them 
again.  I  don't  know  as  I  care  much  how  long 
Benson  stays  in  jail,  for  I  enjoy  myself  much  bet 
ter  than  I  did  when  he  was  at  home,  scolding 


THE   UNHAPPY    MARRIAGE.  123 

round  all  the  time.  And  it  has  made  a  perfect 
vixen  of  me,  and  I  scold  almost  as  bad  as  he  does; 
and  the  children  catch  it,  and  we  have  a  little  bed 
lam  here  all  the  time;  0,  I  wish  it  were  not  so, 
I  cannot  lie  down  quietly  and  sleep  at  night,  and 
I  know  something  fearful  will  come  of  it." 

"  O,  sister,  I  hope  nothing  worse  than  has  come. 
I  am  glad  to  hear  your  prospects  look  more  favor 
able,  and  wish  it  were  in  my  power  to  help  you. 
If  you  get  a  dress  I  will  help  you  make  it,  and  the 
children's  clothing.  But  I  forgot  to  tell  you  Sa 
rah  is  dead,  and  Sambo  has  got  a  cancer,  and  it  is 
thought  he  will  survive  her  but  a  short  time." 

"  Indeed ;  well,  she  was  a  faithful  servant,  and 
has  gone  to  her  reward  ;  and  poor  Sambo,  how 
patiently  he  toiled,  early  and  late,  to  purchase  her 
freedom,  and  they  were  very  happy." 

"  O,  yes,  because  they  loved  each  other,  and 
there  was  no  one  to  interfere  with  them." 

They  were  now  startled  by  hearing  Mr.  Benson 
chiding  the  children  in  a  loud,  angry  voice,  with 
many  oaths,  for  leaving  the  gate  open,  and  letting 
a  cow  into  a  small  yard  of  shrivelled,  stinted  look 
ing  cabbages. 

The  children  scampered  for  the  house,  with  ter 
rified  looks,  whispering,  "father  has  come,"  and 
crouching  down  in  a  heap  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  remained  very  quiet ;  the  old  cow  ran  for 
the  street,  with  Mr.  Benson  at  her  heels,  storming 
furiously,  and  plying  a  large  stick  across  her  back, 
which  he  had  picked  up  in  his  rage. 

The  sisters  placed  the  large  bundle  of  dried  ap- 
2P 


124  THE   UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE. 

pie  in  as  secure  a  place  as  possible,  and  returned 
to  the  kitchen. 

The  door  was  burst  violently  open,  and  Mr. 
Benson  entered  the  room,  exclaiming,  as  he  did  so, 

"  What  in  thunder  is  going  on  here?" 

And  he  proceeded  to  disarrange  chairs,  tables 
and  everything  that  came  in  his  way,  till  the  house 
was  all  in  confusion.  He  went  to  the  cupboard, 
that  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  room,  to  get  a  large 
jug  he  used  to  keep  brandy  in,  in  his  better  days, 
but  which  now  was  often  filled  with  New  Eng- 
lund  rum.  Not  finding  it,  he  almost  screamed, 

"  Hannah,  you  Jezebel,  where  is  my  jug  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  would  sell  it,  as  you  were  board 
ing  out." 

"  Woman,"  shouted  he,  "  that  shall  be  a  dear 
jug  to  you." 

"  It  has  been  that  already." 

The  enraged  husband  cast  at  her  the  look  of  a 
fiend,  and  passed  on  to  the  adjoining  room,  which 
was  calculated  to  be  an  elegant  parlor  when  the 
house  was  raised,  but  which  was  now  converted 
into  a  store  room,  for  old  barrels,  old  baskets,  old 
hats  and  bonnets,  and,  in  fine,  a  great  variety  of 
old  things.  In  one  corner  stood  a  little  old  bed 
stead,  with  an  old  flock  bed,  covered  with  patched 
sheets  and  a  ragged  quilt,  where  James  slept. 
The  loom  was  in  that  room  and  the  spinning 
wheels  ;  an  old  churn  and  many  other  things,  too 
numerous  to  mention. 

Mr.  Benson  reached  up  his  hand,  to  take  down 
a  large  bunch  of  woolen  yarn  that  hung  suspend 
ed  on  a  nail.  His  wife  sprang  forward,  saying, 


THE   UNHAPPY  MARRIAGE.  125 

"  Do  not  touch  that — it  is  not  mine." 
"  I  don't  care  whose  it  is.     I  must  and  will  have 
•something  that  will  sell." 

At  that  moment,  seeing  the  package  of  dried 
apple,  he  pounced  upon  it,  like  a  tiger  upon  its 
prey,  and  bore  it  rapidly  away,  with  the  remon 
strances  of  a  weeping  wife  ringing  in  his  ears. 

And  the  traffickers  in  human  souls  bought  it  at 
a  price,  paid  him  in  liquid  fire,  and  he  returned  to 
his  home,  more  fiend  than  when  he  left  it.  The 
wife's  dress  was  gone  ;  the  comfortable  things  she 
hoped  to  procure  for  the  children  were  gone.  She 
sat  up  and  toiled  late  at  night — and  all  for  what  ? 
To  procure  that  poison  for  her  husband  that  was 
contaminating  his  and  her  own  soul,  and  cast  such 
a  blight  upon  her  home.  Was  it  not  enough  that 
their  house  and  land  were  mortgaged,  their  horse 
and  carriage  gone  ?  but  must  she  toil  with  her 
own  hands,  to  satisfy  that  appetite  that  cries, 
"  give,  give  ?"  As  these  thoughts  passed  through 
Mrs.  Benson's  mind,  she  mentally  exclaimed, 
"  0,  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  a  drunkard's  wife." 
A  few  weeks  after  she  went  to  an  old  chest  that 
stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  to  get  a  piece  of 
woolen  goods  she  had  carefully  prepared  for  the 
market,  which  would  bring  her  several  dollars. 
She  had  placed  an  old  band  box,  quill  wheel  and 
some  other  rubbish  upon  the  chest,  to  conceal  it 
from  view  as  much  as  possible.  Upon  opening  it, 
she  discovered  her  treasure  was  gone,  and  she 
knew  too  well,  for  wrhat  purpose.  The  son,  too, 
drank  with  his  father,  and  got  so  much  the  start 
of  him  in  brutality,  that  even  he  cowered  before 

3F 


126  THE    UNHAPPY   MARRIAGE. 

him,  thus  realizing  that  "  He  that  soweth  the  wind 
shall  reap  the  whirlwind."  But  those  years  pass 
ed  on ;  the  children  grew  up  in  their  perverse- 
ness,  a  family  that  feared  neither  God  or  man. 

No  prayer  ever  ascended,  like  sweet  incense, 
from  those  hearts ;  no  hymns  of  praise  fell  from 
those  lips;  but  they  daily  invoked  curses  upon 
each  other — and  who  shall  say  that  the  curse 
causeless  came  ? 

The  eldest  daughter  married  a  miserable  drunk 
ard,  contrary  to  the  wishes  of  her  father,  threat 
ening  to  fire  the  house  over  their  heads,  if  they 
opposed  her  in  the  least.  The  second  daughter 
lived  in  disgrace,  with  a  man  equally  miserable, 
till  the  house  was  demolished  over  their  heads. 

The  poor  heart-broken  wife  died,  and  was  borne 
away  to  the  grave.  The  son  became  of  age,  took 
the  homestead  from  his  father  by  making  arrange 
ments  to  redeem  it,  and  threw  his  father  into  the 
poor  house,  where  he  wore  out  the  remainder  of 
his  days  in  wretchedness  and  misery. 

The  son,  by  perseverence,  won  the  hand  of  an 
amiable  young  lady,  of  an  excellent  family,  and 
contrary  to  the  expectations  of  every  one,  treated 
her  with  the  greatest  kindness  the  two  years  he 
lived  with  her,  attending  church  with  her  every 
Sabbath,  and  evincing  a  great  change  in  many 
other  ways. 

But  the  desire  of  riches  urged  him,  with  hund 
reds  of  our  fellow  citizens,  to  seek  the  land  of 
gold,  and  like  many  of  them  too,  fell  a  prey  to  his 
ambition.  He  died  on  shipboard,  never  reaching 
the  place  of  his  destination. 


THE  UNHAPPY  MARRIAGE.         127 

Dr.  Somers  died  about  the  same  time,  and  was 
buried  in  his  own  quiet  yard,  in  the  little  village 
that  had  been  the  theatre  of  his  lifo.  That  young 
form  that  had  been  educated  for  the  express  pur 
pose  of  dancing  on  his  grave,  was  tossing  beneath 
the  tumultuous  waves  of  the  briny  ocean,  never 
to  be  at  rest. 

William  Lawrence  lived,  loved  and  respected 
and  transferred  his  earthly  love  to  God,  giving  him 
his  supreme  affections,  thus  living  to  his  honor  and 
his  glory  while  on  «arth,  and  meeting  death  with 
a  calm  resignation,  sank  peacefully  down  to  slum 
ber  in  the  quiet  grave. 

All  the  actors  in  the  little  drama  have  sunk  be 
neath  the  waves  of  death,  (but  three  daughters 
and  the  son's  wife,)  and  the  dust  of  ages  is  gather 
ing  upon  them  ;  but  their  influence  still  lives  and 
speaks  to  the  generations  of  men. 

The  master  and  the  slave  are  there.  The  father 
and  the  daughter,  the  husband  and  the  wife,  and 
the  parents  and  the  son  are  there,  each  one  "to 
answer  for  himself  for  the  deeds  done  in  the 
body."  Surely,  "it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  living  God." 
4P 


LINES- 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON   THE   YEAR   1852', 


WEARY  and  sad  I  sit  alone, 

The  storm-god  whistles  shrill  and  high., 
And  piles  of  sombre  clouds  are  thrown 

O'er  the  blue  curtains  of  the  sky. 

Mournful  I  sit,  for  one  by  one 
Time's  golden  sands  are  ebbing  fast; 

Whispering  in  low  sepulchral  tones, 
The  next,  pcrehancer  may  be  the  last. 

'Tis  midnight's  deep  and  solemn  hour, 
When  visionary  forms  appear, 

And  shed  their  strange,,  mysterious  power 
O'er  the  departure  of  the  year. 

The  charnel  house  is  opened  wide, 
And  thither  's  borne  with  briof  adieu  „ 

And  slumbering  ®yes  laid  beside 
Eighteen  hundred  fifty-two. 

Now  memory  wakes  her  silent  string,. 

And  holds  her  umpire  in  the  brain  ;. 
And  brings,  as  she  alone  can  bring, 

The  image  of  the  past  again. 

Her  golden  key,  with  using  bright, 
Unlocks  the  chambers  of  the  soul,, 

And  holds  to  reason's  steady  light 
The  (-ecret  records  of  her  scroll. 


LINES.  129 

Back,  back  she  sails,  down  time's  dark  stream, 
To  childhood's  bright  and  sunny  hours  ; 

And  paints  again  her  fairy  dream?, 

Her  sports,  her  fancies,  and  her  flowers. 

Touched  by  her  wand,  the  sleeping  dead 

Spring  up  to  active  life  again  : 
And  in  the  busy  pathway  tread, 

Mingling  in  our  joy  and  pain. 

She  points  where  many  a  hope  sprang  bright, 
And  plum'd  a  while  her  pinions  gay  : 

Then  sank  in  disappointment's  night, 
And  each  fair  promise  died  away. 

And  as  I  scan  her  records  of  the  past, 
And  in  succession  all  their  deeds  appear, 

There's  none  o'er  which  so  deep  a  shade  is  cast 
As  thine,  thou  just  expiring  year. 

Thy  spring  was  green,  and  bright,  and  gay, 
And  bloom'd  as  fair  as  Eden's  bow'rs. 

But  mil-dew  in  her  sunbeams  lay, 
And  scorpions  lurk'd  among  the  flowers. 

For  when  all  perfumed  seemed  thy  breath, 

And  all  thy  aspect  sweet  and  mild, 
It  brought  contagion,  blight  and  death, 

And  from  us  bore  a  lovely  child, 

Then  Summer  came,  with  ardent  glow> — 
With  burning  guns  and  sultry  skies, 

Her  mantle  over  Spring  to  throw, — 
Of  richer  tints  and  deeper  dyes. 

Then  often,  with  her  fairy  train, 

Came  gnawing  Grief  and  wasting  Care, 

Sickness,  Anxiety  and  Pain, 
Mingling  in  sad  confusion  there. 

5F 


130  LINES. 

Then  Autumn  came,  with  sober  mien, 
For  summer  clays  are  always  brief; — 

And  in  her  pathway  soon  were  seen 
The  wither'd  flow'r,  the  yellow  leaf. 

But  ere  her  hollow,  chilly  breeze, 
Scarce  spake  of  nature's  sad  decay, 

Or  ting'd  the  foliage  oa  the  trees, 
A  gentle  brother  pass'd  uway. 

Sweet  was  his  passage  to  the  tomb, 
Reclining  on  a  Saviour's  breast; 

He  heard  the  welcome — "  Child,  come  home," 
And  enter'd  on  the  promis'd  rest. 

Then  Winter  came,  with  icy  breath, 

His  hoarse  winds  Avhistling  shrill  and  loud, 

And  quickly  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 
He  lightly  spread  his  snowy  shroud. 

And  sorrow,  like  that  snowy  pall, 

Seemed  spread  o'er  all  my  prospects  bright, 

And  Health,  and  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Peace, 
Seem  verging  all  to  death's  dark  night. 

But  hark  !  I  hear  a  chenring  voice, — 
And  see — those  pale,  cold  lips  still  move. 

Mortal,  shrink  not ;  in  God  rejoice  ! 
He  is  Wisdom,  Power  and  Love. 

'Tis  he  ordains  the  rolling  year  ; — 
Seasons  and  changes  are  his  own  ; 

Then,  mortal,  live  in  God's  own  fear  ; — 
One  struggle,  and  the  year  was  gone, 

But  Peace  had  stolen  o'er  my  breast  ; 

And  as  I  gazed  I  shed  a  tear, — 
And  grateful  for  the  last  behest, 

I  bless'd  the  just  departed  year. 


CONSUMPTION. 


CONSUMPTION. 


THE  whirlwind  in  its  fury  depopulates  a  dis 
trict,  or  a  small  tract  of  land  over  which  it  passes 
perhaps  once  in  a  century — the  earthquake  rum 
bles  through  the  hidden  recesses  of  the  earth, 
and  here  and  there  the  yawning  cavern  swallows 
the  ill-fated  inhabitants  that  dwell  upon  its  sur 
face  ;  the  lightning's  stroke  blasts  in  a  moment, 
and  cuts  the  threads  of  life  without  any  warning ; 
and  the  steam  engine  destroy  their  thousands  in  a 
year;  and  the  winds  and  the  wTaves  conspire  to 
people  the  dark  caves  of  ocean  with  the  dead. 
These,  and  a  thousand  other  avenues,  lead  to 
death,  bearing  terror  in  their  course,  and  herald 
ing  their  approach  by  terrific  sounds. 

But  there  is  an  insiduous  foe,  silent  in  its  pro 
gress,  sapping  first  the  secret  springs  of  life,  but 
yet  diffusing  hopefulness,  ever  whispering  in  syren 
voice,  of  coming  health  and  happiness,  often  add 
ing  a  deeper  crimson  to  the  cheek  and  a  brighter 
lustre  to  the  eye. 

It  feeds  alike  on  all ;  the  infant  in  its  inno- 
cene  ;  childhood  in  its  playfulness ;  youth  in  its 


132  CONSUMPTION. 

beauty ;  manhood  in  his  usefulness,  and  old  age 
in  its  decrepitude.  All,  all  fall  alike  before  the 
withering  breath  of  consumption. 

Glancing  back  through  the  long  avenue  of  past 
years,  many  a  green  mound  rises  by  the  path-way 
over  the  wasted  victims  of  this  fearful  disease. 

First  upon  memory's  list,  comes  up  a  smiling 
infant,  of  rare  beauty  and  patient  mien,  that  won 
our  love  by  those  little  winning  ways  that  are  the 
prerogatives  of  that  tender  age.  A  slight  cough 
and  extreme  weakness,  were  the  only  indications 
of  the  fearful  work  that  was  progressing  within. 
A  bright  flush  rested  upon  the  lily  cheek,  and 
none  who  looked  upon  the  unwonted  brilliancy 
of  those  eyes  ever  could  forget  their  lustre.  The 
pure  spirit  seemed  to  look  forth  from  their  azure 
depths.  A  moan  seldom  escaped  her  lips,  but  she 
would  lay  quiet  in  her  little  cradle,  looking  out 
unmoved  upon  the  business  and  stir  of  that  life, 
upon  which  she  had  so  briefly  entered,  but  where 
she  was  to  bear  so  small  a  part  in  its  fluctuations 
and  concerns. 

Anxiously  did  the  fond  mother  watch  over  her 
precious  one,  and  endeavor  by  a  thousand  atten 
tions,  to  strengthen  the  feeble  tenure  that  held 
her  to  life.  She  was  the  darling,  the  youngest 
one  of  a  numerous  family,  and  all  the  purest  affec 
tions  of  many  fond  hearts  were  offered  at  her 
shrine. 

But  could  this  bribe  death  ?  O  no,  the  destroy 
er  stayed  not  in  his  course,  but  drew  stealthily 
along,  and  aimed  his  dart  secretly  but  surely,  at 
his  victirn. 


CONSUMPTION.  133 

It  was  a  chilly  day  in  early  spring  ;  vegetation 
was  just  arousing  from  winter's  sleep,  and  the 
spring  blossoms  were  just  beginning  to  peep  from 
their  casing  of  green,  when  this  little  bud  of 
beauty  perished  from  earth.  She  lay  in  the  cra 
dle  usually,  because  it  wearied  her  to  be  held  in 
the  lap. 

It  was  noon,  when  the  mother  bent  over  her  to 
administer  some  nourishment,  and  thought  she 
perceived  a  change  upon  her  countenance.  The 
same  glad  smile  rested  upon  her  features,  but  it 
was  more  heavenly  in  its  expression.  She  seated 
herself  by  the  cradle,  and  raised  her  affectionately 
in  her  arms,  saying  as  she  did  so, 

"  My  dear  child,  I  shall  not  lay  you  down  again 
till  you  look  better." 

She  looked  at  her  a  few  moments,  her  blue  orbs 
were  turned  to  heaven,  and  by  their  earnest  gaze 
seemed  penetrating  the  glories  of  the  upper  world. 

There  was  soon  an  effort  to  vomit,  succeeded 
by  the  fearful  death  rattle  that  comes  but  once  in 
human  life.  It  was  the  struggle  that  must  come 
to  all,  sooner  or  later.  The  angel  of  death  was 
leading  this  feeble  infant  through  the  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death,  by  a  gentle  hand ;  one  little 
struggle,  one  gentle  sigh,  one  little  quiver  of  the 
lip,  and  the  sinless  spirit  had  departed  ere  the 
father  and  brothers,  who  had  been  hastily  sum 
moned,  reached  her  side. 

Beautiful  beyond  description  was  the  touch  of 
death  as  it  lingered  upon  that  marble  brow,  and 
rested  upon  the  beautifully  chiselled  features  of 
the  dear  babe. 


134  CONSUMPTION. 

She  was  arrayed  in  a  simple  white  robe,  and 
laid  into  her  cradle,  while  a  sorrowing  angel  hov 
ered  over  the  household.  An  absent  son  returned 
who  had  been  teaching  several  miles  distant,  and 
among  other  gifts  were  some  for  the  little  one, 
but  those  little  eyes  were  closed,  and  those  little 
hands  that  used  to  be  raised  with  so  much  fond 
ness,  were  now  stiff  and  cold  in  death  ;  but  how 
lovely!  Her  grave  was  made  in  the  headland  of 
the  garden  ;  a  tall  lilac  stood  upon  one  side  of  it, 
and  a  fragrant  rose  bush  stood  upon  the  other. 
No  stone  marked  the  spot,  but  will  she  be  forgot 
ten  on  the  morning  of  the  resurrection  ? 

Years  passed  on,  many  silent  years,  for  we  heard 
no  sounds  to  tell  us  that  time  was  threading  the 
mazy  thoroughfares  of  human  life,  stealing  noise 
lessly  through  our  dwellings,  and  pressing  his  way 
with  us  to  the  ocean  of  eternity,  hastening  on  to 
the  period  when  he  shall  come  to  an  end,  and  the 
great  angel  shall  swear  there  shall  be  time  no 
longer.  But  so  it  was  ;  years  had  been  borne 
away  by  his  rapid  flight,  and  laid  side  by  side 
with  those  that  passed  before  the  flood,  and 
change  had  come. 

Many  voices  that  lisped  their  matin  and  their 
vesper  hymns  by  one  hearth  stone,  were  now  scat 
tered  far  and  wide,  and  other  homes  had  sprung 
up,  and  the  children  had  become  parents,  and  new 
duties  devolved  upon  them.  Some  had  passed  the 
meridian!!  of  life,  the  sun  of  some  had  reached 
their  noon,  while  others  were  climbing  up  the 
eastern  summit.  But  as  yet  death  had  spared 
that  numerous  household  ;  but  now  he  was  watch- 


CONSUMPTION.  135 

ing  for  his  prey.  A  son  who  had  reached  the 
meridian  of  life,  with  fair  prospects  and  an  un 
blemished  reputation,  was  selected. 

He  had  consecrated  himself  to  God,  had  put  on 
Christ  by  baptism,  and  well  did  he  adorn  his  pro 
fession,  living  a  consistent  Christian  life.  But 
death  marked  him  for  his  victim. 

It  were  needless  now  to  tell  of  all  the  secret 
underminings  of  life's  hidden  springs.  He  was 
cheerfully,  hopefully  looking  forward  to  a  long 
life  of  usefulness,  and  striving  to  attain  to  greater 
proficiency  in  his  profession,  for  he  was  a  phy 
sician.  But  the  strength  of  manhood,  integrity  of 
principle,  nor  Christian  virtue  could  shield  him 
from  the  stealthy  foe  that  was  infusing  its  poison 
through  the  secret  avenues  of  life. 

Strength  declined,  the  cough  increased,  night 
sweats  came  on,  and  one  occupation  after  another 
had  to  be  relinquished,  till  he  was  a  confirmed 
invalid,  and  when  he  became  next  convinced  that 
he  must  die,  the  business  of  his  remaining  time 
upon  earth  was  to  make  preparation  for  that 
event. 

His  countenance  ever  wore  a  smile,  and  he  con 
versed  cheerfully  with  his  friends. 

He  sold  his  place,  which  was  one  he  had  desired 
for  many  years,  and  which  he  had  recently  pur 
chased,  anticipating  a  long  life  of  usefulness  in 
the  bosom  of  his  family,  which  consisted  of  his 
wife  and  one  son.  But  he  cheerfully  resigned  it, 
and  settled  all  his  business  as  far  as  was  in  his 
power,  made  the  best  possible  provision  for  his 
wife  and  son, .and  retired  with  them  to  her  pater- 


136  CONSUMPTION. 

nal  home  to  prepare  the  inner  man  for  the  great 
change  that  was  before  him. 

His  mind  was  relieved  from  earthly  cares,  every 
thing  being  arranged  as  he  desired,  and  he  used 
to  say, 

"  I  have  '  set  my  house  in  order,'  and  have 
nothing  to  do  but  die." 

The  things  of  eternity  occupied  his  entire 
thoughts;  he  seldom  spoke  of  his  sufferings  as  being 
great,  but  expressedrfliankfulness  that  he  was  pass 
ing  so  easily  away.  But  it  appeared  different  to 
his  friends  that  looked  upon  him.  He  could  lay 
only  upon  one  side  for  several  months  before  he 
died,  and  he  had  painful  ulcers  upon  several  parts 
of  the  body,  and  a  constant  cough,  with  laborious 
breathing  and  profuse  night  sweats,  accompanied 
by  great  emaciation.  These  were  the  most  prom 
inent  features  in  the  fearful  disease. 

But  he  would  allow  no  one  to  remain  with  him 
during  the  night,  affirming  it  was  unnecessary  for 
any  one  to  be  disturbed,  thus  spending  his  restless, 
weary  nights  in  communion  with  his  Saviour  and 
his  God. 

He  made  all  the  arrangements  for  his  funeral, 
telling  his  friends  not  to  weep  for  him.  He  hoped 
as  his  usefulness  on  earth  was  so  soon  to  end,  his 
death  might  be  sanctified  so  as  to  be  the  means  of 

O 

inducing  his  unconverted  friends  to  seek  that  pre 
paration  of  heart  that  is  necessary  for  entrance 
into  a  better  life. 

He  told  his  wife  the  manner  in  which  he  should 
probably  die,  and  endeavored  to  prepare  her  mind 
for  it.  He  had  distressing  turns  of  suffocation,  so 


CONSUMPTION.  137 

that  they  were  obliged  to  open  all  the  windows 
and  doors  for  the  benefit  of  the  air,  and  he  long- 
expected  every  turn  would  be  the  last. 

A  few  days  before  his  death,  his  aged  mother 
and  a  sister  visited  him.  He  conversed  with  them 
cheerfully  upon  the  arrangements  of  his  funeral  ; 
told  them  he  was  ready  to  be  offered,  and  should 
meet  the  appointment  as  cheerfully  as  ever  he 
met  any  in  his  life.  He  consulted  them  about  the 
propriety  of  the  hour  of  the  funeral,  and  some 
other  things  in  connection  with  the  coming  event, 
as  he  would  were  he  making  preparations  for  a 
journey.  When  the  aged  mother  pressed  the 
hand  of  her  son  for  the  last  time  on  earth,  she 
said  with  a  smile, 

"  I  can  only  wish  the  presence  of  your  Saviour, 
to  go  with  you,  and  lighten  the  '  dark  valley  of 
the  shadow  of  death.'  " 

He  looked  fondly  in  her  face,  while  a  smile  of 
ineffable  sweetness  beamed  upon  his  countenance. 

"  You  could  not  wish  me  a  better  wish,  mo 
ther." 

"  I  shall  soon  follow  you,  my  son;  I  do  not 
think  I  shall  live  the  winter  out,"  said  the  mother, 
as  she  unclasped  her  hand  from  the  son's,  that  she 
had  taken,  for  the  last  time. 

That  mother's  hand  had  been  extended,  to  guide 
him  through  the  wayward  paths  of  childhood  and 
youth,  to  strengthen  and  comfort  him,  and  smooth 
many  rough  places  in  the  pathway  of  manhood  ; 
but  now  it  was  withdrawn  upon  the  brink  of  the 
grave — it  could  not  assist,  could  not  support  him  ; 


138  CONSUMPTION. 

but  she  committed  him  to  that  arm  that  is  mighty 
to  save. 

It  was  a  mild  day  in  early  autumn,  when  the 
pale  messenger  came  to  beckon  him  away.  He 
had  tasted  of  the  early  autumnal  fruits,  had  drank 
the  delicious  juice  from  her  purple  grape,  and 
watched  the  early  symptoms  of  decay  that  were 
visible  in  some  withering  flower  or  fading  leaf,  and 
felt  that  "  passing  away"  was  legibly  written  on 
all  earthly  things.  Once,  and  once  only,  he  had 
prayed,  "  O,  my  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this 
cup  pass  from  me,  but  thy  will  be  done." 

He  failed  fast  the  last  few  hours  of  his  life,  los 
ing  all  appetite  for  nourishment,  and  having  more 
frequent  turns  of  suffocation,  and  a  sister  was  sent 
for.  Scarcely  had  she  arrived,  when  he  remarked 
to  his  wife  that  he  felt  very  easy  ;  but  as  it  was 
time,  he  would  take  his  medicine.  He  took  out 
the  quantity  upon  the  point  of  his  knife,  and  af 
ter  taking  it,  lay  back  upon  his  pillow,  apparently 
asleep.  He  started  suddenly,  looked  wildly  up, 
and  told  them  he  was  choking  to  death.  They 
raised  his  head,  and  used  their  accustomed  means 
to  relieve  him,  but  all  to  no  avail.  The  death  dew 
stood  in  large  drops  upon  his  forehead,  and  the 
film  gathered  over  the  sparkling  eye  and  shut  out 
the  light  of  earth  forever.  He  stretched  out  one 
hand  and  placed  it  upon  the  head  of  his  son,  who 
came  hurriedly  to  his  bedside,  crying  out,  in  pite 
ous  accents, 

"  0,  father,  father,"  and  stood  sobbing  beside 
him. 

This  was  his  only  recognition  of  any  one.     But 


CONSUMPTION.  139 

the  struggle  was  soon  over,  and  the  spirit  had 
burst  the  barriers  that  held  it  to  its  clay  tenement 
and  passed  away  to  a  brigher  world. 

His  sun  set  at  noon  ;  but  his  memory  has  left 
a  sweet  fragrance  behind  it,  grateful  to  the  sur 
viving  friends,  who  are  called  upon  to  follow  his 
pious  example. 

He  was  borne  to  the  Cemetery,  and  buried  in  a 
spot,  which  he  had  selected  a  few  weeks  before, 
in  company  with  his  aged  mother,  by  a  long  train 
of  weeping  friends,  for  he  had  been  very  dear  to 
us,  and  nature  would  have  her  tribute,  and  it  filled 
our  hearts  with  sadness,  when  we  realized  that  we 
should  see  that  loved  form  on  earth  no  more.  Yet 
we  rejoiced  that  he  had  died  in  the  glorious  hope 
of  a  blessed  immortality,  and  that  we  could  say, 
in  the  impressive  language  of  the  text  that  was 
chosen  for  his  funeral  sermon,  "  Our  friend  Laza 
rus  sleepeth."  Sweet  be  thy  sleep,  clear  brother, 
during  the  night  of  death  ;  but  the  morning  will 
come — the  glorious  morning  of  the  resurrection — 
and  unlock  the  portals  of  the  tomb,  and  the  dead 
shall  come  forth,  the  righteous  clothed  in  eternal 
youth,  shall  never  die,  the  wicked  sinking  into 
the  second  death  that  has  no  end. 

Sober  autumn  perfected  his  work  of  decay,  and 
dreary  winter  spread  his  snowy  shroud  over  the 
barren  globe,  when  the  aged  mother  laid  down 
upon  the  bed  of  death.  Her  infant  had  passed 
away,  in  the  very  dawn  of  its  existence.  Her  son 
had  sunk  down,  while  his  meridian  sun  was  shining 
in  its  noonday  splendor  ;  but  she  had  lived  till  the 
winter  of  life  had  scattered  its  snows  upon  her 


140  CONSUMPTION. 

head,  and  was  now  falling,  like  a  shock  of  corn, 
fully  ripe.  She  was  ready  to  be  bidden  suddenly 
away,  for  she  was  ever  watching  for  the  coming 
of  the  bridegroom.  Consumption  had  long  been 
preying  upon  her  form,  and  paving  her  way  to  the 
tomb;  but  she  could  look  calmly  upon  the  pros 
pect,  and  contemplate  the  struggle  of  death  with 
out  shrinking  from  it. 

She  had  long  been  an  humble  follower  of  the 
meek  and  lowly  Jesus,  and  his  religion  diffused  its 
divine  light  over  the  most  trifling  incidents  of  her 
life.  She  ever  looked  upon  the  fashions  of  this 
world  as  passing  away,  and  never  conformed  to 
them,  or  the  manners  of  the  world;  but  taking 
the  holy  word  of  G-od  for  her  example,  endeavor 
ed  to  imbibe  its  precepts,  and  practice  its  require 
ments.  In  profession  of  her  faith,  she  united  with 
the  Congregational  Church,  at  the  early  age  of 
nineteen,  and  at  the  age  of  seventy-six  years,  could 
look  back  upon  a  life  spent  to  the  honor  and  glory 
of  him  who  had  redeemed  her  with  his  precious 
blood.  She  offered  up  her  children  upon  the  altar 
of  her  heart's  purest  affections,  consecrating  them 
to  God,  by  having  them  publicly  dedicated,  thus 
performing  what  she  felt  to  be  an  important  duty 
of  a  Christian  mother. 

Many  an  adverse  wind  had  she  encountered — 
that  weary  voyager  on  life's  troubled  sea ;  but 
Christ  had  long  been  her  pilot,  and  now  he  was 
about  to  moor  her  frail  bark  into  the  haven  of 
peace,  and  the  tumultuous  waves  were  hushed, 
while  the  loving  Saviour  whispered,  "  Peace,  be 
still." 


CONSUMPTION.  141 

She  could  converse  but  little,  and  was  with  dif 
ficulty  understood  ;  but  every  word  breathed  of 
faith  and  hope.  On  the  afternoon  before  her 
death,  she  repeated  these  beautiful  lines,  and,  ap 
parently,  felt  their  import : 

"  Jesus  can  make  a  dying  bed 

Feel  soft  as  downy  pillows  are, 
While  on  his  breast  I  lean  my  head, 

And  breathe  ray  life  out  sweetly  there." 

She  wished  to  have  her  robe  and  cap  prepared 
so  that  she  might  see  them  before  her  death.  She 
expressed  anxiety  for  her  aged  companion,  to 
whom  she  had  been  united  fifty-five  years,  and 
who  was  dangerously  sick  at  the  time,  and  thought 
he  would  never  recover ;  but  would  soon  drop  in 
to  a  deep  stupor,  occasioned  by  ossification  of  the 
brain. 

During  the  night  her  feet  and  hands  grew  cold, 
and  the  worn  spirit  seemed  struggling  to  depart. 

She  would  frequently  arouse  from  her  stupor, 
and  speak  a  word  or  two  to  her  attendants,  saying 
to  one, 

"  You  did  not  expect  me  to  be  found  alone  now, 
did  you?" 

She  repeated,  "  In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions ;  if  it  were  not  so  I  would  have  told 
you  ;  I  go  to  prepare  a  place  for  you." 

She  lingered  till  about  ten  o'clock  in  the  fore 
noon,  then  calling  for  the  absent  members  of  the 
family,  she  desired  to  be  raised  up.  Her  son  sup 
ported  her  in  his  arms,  the  feeble  lamp  of  life 
ilckered  a  moment  in  its  socket,  there  was  a  little 


142  CONSUMPTION. 

struggle,  and  that  pure  breast  lay  free  from  the 
care  or  burden  of  life.  Those  loving  eyes  had 
looked  their  last  upon  her  dear  children,  that  stood 
weeping  by  her  bedside,  and  the  toil  worn  hands 
were  laid  cold  and  pulseless  upon  her  peaceful 
bosom,  and  she  was  now  at  rest  with  her  Saviour, 
"  in  the  house  of  many  mansions."  Those  dear 
hands  that  had  been  so  active,  administering  to 
the  necessities  of  her  family,  had  now  ceased  their 
labor,  and  lay  inactive,  in  their  marble  whiteness. 

How  many  thoughts  come  surging  up,  from  the 
wellspring  of  memory,  as  we  looked  upon  her  in 
her  last  repose,  and  glanced  retrospectively  upon 
her  useful  and  exemplary  life.  Again  we  heard 
the  rich  instruction  that  had  fallen  from  those  pale 
lips,  and  a  new  purpose  sprung  up  in  the  heart — 
a  new  desire  to  be  more  entirely  consecrated  to 
God,  that  our  path  might  be  the  path  of  the  just, 
that  "grows  brighter  and  brighter  to  the  perfect 
day." 

Her  coffin  was  carried  to  the  bedside  of  her 
husband,  who  was  unable  to  rise,  and  too  sick  to 
realize  the  extent  of  his  sorrow,  and  so  he  looked 
for  the  last  time  upon  the  countenance  of  that 
dear  wife,  who  had  been  the  partaker  in  his  joys 
and  sorrows,  through  their  long  journey  together. 
It  was  fifty-five  years  since  their  union,  and  now 
the  bond  was  broken.  One  was  an  ang^l  of  light, 
the  other  was  left  to  drift  awhile  upon  the  ocean 
of  life,  ere  his  frail  bark  sails  over  death's  slug 
gish  stream. 

She,  too,  was  conveyed  to  the  Cemetery,  and 
laid  beside  her  dear  son,  who  had  been  deposited 


CONSUMPTION.  143 

there  a  few  month's  previous.  And  they  followed 
her,  slowly  and  sadly,  along  the  same  road  she  had 
passed  over  half  a  century  before,  when  she  was 
borne  into  the  neighborhood,  a  young  and  joyous 
bride,  and  passed  the  house  that  was  then  built 
for  the  reception  of  the  young  mistress. 

Here  she  commenced  her  first  experience  in  the 
trials  and  duties  of  house-keeping;  and  here  were 
opened  the  deep  fountains  of  a  mother's  love. 
This  had  been  for  many  years  the  theatre  of  her 
life,  where  she  had  acted  a  conspicuous  part  in  its 
changeful  drama,  and  where  still  linger  many  foot 
prints  time  will  never  efface,  for  true  it  is,  the 
influence  still  lives,  and  will  be  transmitted  to 
succeeding  generations.  The  scenes  that  were  so 
familiar  to  her  eyes,  were  now  hid  from  her  sight, 
and  she  rested  in  the  Cemetery,  within  a  few  feet 
of  the  land  that  was  once  contained  in  their  own 
farm. 

One  son,  the  eldest  of  the  family,  after  being 
absent  from  home  many  years,  died  in  a  land  of 
strangers,  and  little  was  ever  known  of  his  death 
or  burial.  The  dear  babe  was  left,  far  away,  and 
the  mother  and  son  slept  side  by  side,  in  the  Ceme 
tery,  waiting  the  time  when  other  dear  friends 
shall  come  and  lay  down  by  their  sides  in  that 
quiet  resting  place. 

The  tall  trees  stand  waving  in  the  wind,  and 
seem  beckoning  the  weary  ones  of  earth,  to  lay 
down  beneath  their  cooling  shades. 

The  silvery  stream  dances  on,  making  sweet 
music  in  its  winding  course,  ever  murmuring  a 
sweet  requiem  to  the  dead.  Birds  warble  their 


144  CONSUMPTION. 

matin  songs  in  the  brandies,  and  the  night  dew 
water  the  graves  with  their  tears,  while  the  winds 
sigh  over  the  grassy  mounds ;  and  all  on  earth 
must  make  their  bed  with  them,  and  every  step 
we  take  in  the  journey  of  life,  is  a  step  towards 
the  tomb,  whatever  other  duty  may  be  performed. 
Solemn  is  the  reflection  that  there  is  an  open 
grave  before  every  one  that  lives,  and  were  we  so 
situated  that  we  could  define  our  progress,  arid 
notice  each  day's  approach  to  its  confines,  we 
should  feel  sensibly  that  we  were  hastening  on  to 
join  the  pale  nations  of  the  dead,  and  fill  our  re 
spective  places  in  the  land  of  darkness  and  shadow 
of  death. 

But  we  will  leave  the  dear  infant,  the  brother, 
and  the  mother,  to  that  rest  that  remains  for  the 
people  of  God  ;  they  have  fallen  victims  to  con 
sumption,  with  the  vast  multitudes  that  have  fall 
en  a  prey  to  the  ruthless  destroyer. 

Memory  brings  up,  upon  her  retentive  tablet, 
the  recollection  of  a  family  that  fell  before  its 
withering  blight,  ere  the  elasticity  of  youth  had 
passed  away. 

The  first  that  died  was  a  young  wife  and  moth 
er.  She  faded  like  the  early  spring  flowers,  and 
soon  her  brothers  and  sisters  j^ounger  than  she 
were  laid  by  her  side  in  the  silent  chambers  of 
death,  all  in  the  vigor  and  beauty  of  youth.  The 
rose  faded  suddenly  upon  their  cheeks,  and  they 
fell  before  thee,  thou  ruthless  destroyer  of  the 
generations  of  men. 

The  infant  of  a  few  days  laid  down  its  young 


CONSUMPTION.  145 

life,  and  joined    the   multitude  in  the   place   of 
graves. 

One  young  man  just  verging  upon  manhood, 
was  cut  suddenly  down  with  but  little  warning. 
He  apparently  had  a  slow  fever,  and  had  been 
confined  a  few  days  at  the  house  of  a  friend,  but 
had  so  far  recovered  as  to  anticipate  a  visit  to  his 
family  on  horseback,  as  the  distance  was  short, 
and  the  doctor  had  recommended  that  exercise. 
But  on  the  appointed  day,  while  his  horse  stood 
saddled  at  the  door,  he  came  in  from  a  short  walk, 
and  asked  a  niece  to  help  him  off  with  his  coat, 
as  he  wished  to  lay  down.  As  she  did  so  she  per 
ceived  the  blood  was  settled  under  his  nails.  He 
rlung  himself  on  the  bed,  concealing  his  hands 
'  under  his  back  ;  his  breathing  became  difficult, 
and  death  soon  claimed  him  for  his  own. 

Sorrow  filled  the  afflicted  household  when  the 
intelligence  reached  them.  The  father  saw  the 
messenger  approaching,  and  informed  the  family 
the  son  was  coming. 

A  younger  sister  and  brother  were  lingering  in 
the  last  stages  of  consumption.  They  were  now 
filled  with  eager  expectancy.  The  father  soon 
discovered  the  horse,  but  not  the  rider  they  were 
expecting,  and  waited  the  issue  with  fearful  fore 
bodings. 

Loud  was  the  burst  of  grief  that  rung  the  air 
when  the  stricken  family  heard  of  the  death  of  the 
absent  one  in  so  unexpected  a  moment ;  thus  crush 
ing  out  forever  the  hope  that  had  sprung  up  in  so 
many  hearts  of  returning  health  and  usefulness. 

Upon  a  post  mortem   examination,  it  was  dis- 


146  CONSUMPTION. 

covered  that  the  rupture  of  a  blood  vessel  was  the 
cause  of  his  death.  His  lungs  were  found  to  be 
in  a  bad  condition,  betraying  that  the  foe  of  the 
family  had  been  holding  secret  revel  there, 

A  day  or  two  later,  and  the  sable  plumed  angel 
returned  again,  and  hovered  over  the  gentle  sister, 
casting  his  shadow  upon  her  brow,  and  chilling 
her  with  his  icy  breath.  His  snowy  fingers  rested 
upon  her  fluttering  pulses  ;  she  cast  one  fond  gaze 
upon  the  dear  brother  that  was  soon  to  follow 
her,  bade  farewell  to  her  earthly  friends,  and  went 
with  the  angel  to  the  spirit  land. 

The  brother  lingered  till  the  remains  of  his  sis 
ter  were  laid  in  the  grave,  then  he  followed  her, 
to  add  another  to  the  long  row  of  headstones  that 
marked  the  resting  place  of  that  stricken  family. 
They  sleep  together,  side  by  side,  ten  in  numbeiv 
the  oldest  one  scarce  twenty-two  years  old.  As 
we  stand  by  the  spot  and  read  the  melancholy 
tale,  we  can  but  exclaim  with  Ossian,  "  The 
flower  lifts  its  green  head  to  the  sun.  Why  dost 
thou  awake  me,  O  gale,"  it  seems  to  say,  "  I  am 
wet  with  the  dews  of  heaven."  "The  time  of  my 
fading  is  near,  and  the  blast  that  shall  scatter  my 
leaves."  "  To-morrow  shall  the  traveler  come  j 
he  that  saw  me  in  my  glory  shall  come  ;  his  eye 
shall  search  the  field  for  me  but  shall  not  find  me." 

A  youth  of  great  promise  next  presents  ;  his 
mother  had  many  years  since  fallen  a  prey  to  the 
fatal  disease,  and  although  he  inherited  from  her 
the  fearful  malady,  "  the  young  disease  that  must 
subdue  at  length,"  had  not  as  yet  developed  itself. 
Buoyant  with  hope  and  expectation,  he  was  pre- 


CONSUMPTION.  147 

paring  to  enter  the  gospel  ministry,  having  conse 
crated  himself  to  God  and  his  service.  He  had 
entered  the  institution  at  North  Yarmouth,  and 
by  his  assiduous  attention,  almost  finished  his  edu 
cation.  He  was  expecting  soon  to  launch  out 
upon  the  broad  ocean  of  public  usefulness,  but 
his  heavenly  Father  bid  him  "  come  up  higher," 
and  he  passed  on  into  the  more  expansive  ocean 
of  eternity.  The  seeds  of  an  inherent  disease 
sprung  up  and  bore  early  fruit,  and  deposited  this 
young  man  in  his  grave,  far  from  the  home  and 
the  friends  of  his  childhood.  The  eye  of  the 
stranger  rests  upon  it,  the  foot  of  the  stranger 
visits  it. 

A  younger  sister  too,  fell  by  the  same  powerful 
agent  far  from  home,  and  is  buried  in  a  land  of 
strangers.  A  brother  sleeps  by  his  mother's  side 
in  the  family  burial  ground. 

In  another  family  the  mother  was  called  first 
from  a  family  of  little  children.  She  wept  in  the 
agonies  of  death,  as  she  contemplated  their  bereave 
ment.  She  pressed  to  her  heart  the  infant  of  a 
few  days,  and  prayed  fervently  to  that  God  that 
heareth  prayer,  to  be  the  God  of  her  dear  children, 
to  protect  them  in  their  tender  age,  and  lead  them 
in  the  narrow  way  that  leads  to  eternal  life.  Af 
ter  the  sands  of  life  had  ebbed  out,  and  her  loving 
heart  had  ceased  to  feel,  the  tear-drops  that  had 
fallen  for  her  children  still  lingered  upon  her 
cheeks. 

A  lovely  daughter  followed  her  at  the  early  age 
of  sixteen,  another  ere  she  reached  the  meridian  of 
life,  leaving  seven  children.  Another  daughter 


148  CONSUMPTION. 

passed  away  just  as  her  sun  was  verging  toward 
the  western  hemisphere,  leaving  a  son  and  daugh 
ter.  The  son  soon  followed  her  and  was  laid  by 
the  side  of  his  mother  and  grandmother. 

The  crimson  spot  upon  the  daughter's  cheek, 
accompanied  by  the  hacking  cough,  seem  to  de 
note  that  the  tardy  messenger  will  soon  bear 
another  victim  to  the  mansions  of  death.  Anoth 
er  daughter  too  is  lingering  upon  the  confines  of 
the  grave,  while  the  fatal  seeds  are  taking  deep 
root  in  the  constitutions  of  two  of  the  sons,  and 
heralding  by  unmistakable  evidence  the  approach 
of  death. 

But  why  particularize  ?  Many,  very  many  who 
have  walked  with  us  side  by  side,  in  the  sweet 
associations  of  life,  are  mingled  with  the  long 
train  that  are  buried  beneath  the  "  clods  of  the 
valley,"  while  there  is  a  long  train  of  living  victims 
marching  before  the  fearful  blight  to  the  open 
tomb. 

No  monarch  sways  his  despotic  sceptre  over  so 
numerous  a  population  as  this  fell  destroyer,  in 
his  unseen  lurking  places,  "  drinking  up  the  very 
fountains  of  human  life."  But  when  will  the 
sons  of  men  learn  to  think  ?  with  all  the  blight 
of  death  around,  cutting  one  down  upon  the  right 
hand  and  another  upon  the  left,  the  thoughtless 
crowd  pass  on,  little  seeming  to  heed  their  own 
mortality.  They  look  into  the  open  grave,  or 
watch  the  passing  funeral  perhaps  with  a  momen 
tary  sadness,  and  turns  lightly  again  to  the  active 
concerns  of  life,  mingling  in  its  gaities  and  dissi 
pation,  dancing  on  to  the  very  whirlpool  that  is 


CONSUMPTION.  149 

soon  to  engulf  their  frail  bark,  and  bear  it  away 
where  hope  can  never  come. 

Happy  they  who  receive  instruction  from  the 
revelations  of  God's  holy  word,  and  imbibe  its 
precepts  into  their  heart ;  who,  cleansed  in  a  Sa 
viour's  blood,  are  made  recipients  of  his  rich 
grace,  and  are  thus  prepared  to  enter  that  "  land 
where  death  comes  not." 
3G 


TO  MRS.  A.  B. 


TO  MRS.  A-—  B- 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  CHILD. 

"  Are  they  not  all  ministering  spirits  ?  " 


"  MOTHER,  do  not  weep  for  me, 
Shining  angols  guide  my  way ; 

And  oft  they  lead  me  back  to  thee, 
Through  realms  of  everlasting  day. 

I  may  not  burst  the  spirit's  tie, 
Or  lift  the  dim,  mysterious  screen, 

That  hides  mo  from  thy  mortal  eye  ; 
But  I  may  visit  thee  unseen. 

Night  comes  not  here  ;  no  evening  shade 
Ere  gathers  round  the  throne  of  God  ; 

And  when  your  setting  sunbeams  fade, 
I  visit  then  your  lone  abode. 

The  twilight  hour  was  dear  to  me, 

With  murmur'd  tone  of  evening  prayer  ; 

When  with  hands  clasp'd  upon  your  knee, 
And  learned  to  lisp  "  Our  Father"  there. 

There  I  first  caught  the  notes  of  praise, 
Flowing  from  a  mother's  tongue. 

Which  through  eternity  shall  raise 
A  holy,  high,  angelic  song. 


TO    MRS.   A.   B.  151 

And  then  your  thoughts  arc  all  of  me, 

So  softly  nestling  by  your  side  ; 
I  wait  io  hear  those  trembling  tones, 

In  which  you  sang  the  day  I  died. 

Your  patient  watch  beside  my  couch, 

You  fain  my  ev'ry  woe  beguil'd  ; 
For  anxiously,  and  tenderly, 

You  ever  watch'd  your  dying  child. 

But  all  your  efforts  were  in  vain, — 
Friends  or  physicians  could  not  save  ; 

For  ghastly  death  his  mandate  gave-, 
To  lay  me  in  the  silent  grave. 

And  scarce  had  rosy  finger'd  morn 

Unrolled  her  earliest  tints  of  gray, 
To  usher  in  the  peaceful  dawn 

Of  that  delightful  Sabbath  day,— 

When,  silently,  the  angel  came. 

With  upraised  eye,  and  beck'ning  hand, 
And  gently  folding  in  his  arms, 

Bore  me  to  the  spirit  land. 

Where  sweet  transporting  voices  stole 

On  my  enraptur'd  eye  and  ear, 
That  spoke  the  Sabbath  of  the  soul, 

Ceaseless  as  the  eternal  year. 

Here  angel  and  arch-angel  bow 

In  worship  round  the  great  white  throne: 

And  ceaseless  hallelujahs  rise, 
To  the  Almighty,  Three;  and  One 

Each  has  a  mission  to  perform, 

As  swift  through  ambient  air  they  fly  : 

"Tis  mine  to  minister  to  thca, 
And  gently  woo  thee  to  the  sky- 


152  TO    MRS.    A.    B. 

Mother,  there  are  jewels  bright 
Graven  on  your  deathless  soul, 

And  brighter  shall  their  radiance  glow, 
While  everlasting  ages  roll. 

Mother,  they  are  pure  thoughts  of  heaven, 
Murmur'd  oft  upon  your  ear, 

Which  God  to  me  had  kindly  given, 
Your  solitary  way  to  cheer. 

Mother,  these  are  memories  sweet, 
Deeply  treasur'd  in  your  heart, 

Which  time,  with  his  restless  change, 
May  never  dare  to  bid  depart. 

Sometimes  acr*oss  your  lap  I  lie, 

And  breathe  that  evening  prayer  again, 

And  looking  in  your  tearful  eye, 
Again  repeat  that  sweet  amen. 

Then  mother,  leave  your  child  of  earth 
To  moulder  back  to  kindred  dust, 

And  trace  my  new  and  heav'nly  birth, 
A  rausom'd  spirit  with  the  just. 

And  weep  not  o'er  the  casket  laid 
Beneath  this  little  heaped  up  mound. 

The  deathless  jewel  cannot  fade, — 
A  diamond  in  a  Saviour's  crown. 


AN   EVENING   IN   OUR   VILLAGE. 


AN  EVENING  IN  OUR  VILLAGE. 


WHY  should  we  wander  in  the  fields  of  fiction, 
to  cull  fancy's  flowers  to  feast  a  morbid  imagina 
tion,  when  there  are  so  many  thrilling  incidents 
in  the  pathway  of  human  life,  calculated  to  awak 
en  the  most  refined  emotions,  and  stir  the  deepest 
currents  of  the  human  soul  ?  Would  the  painter, 
as  he  raised  his  brush  to  give  the  last  finishing 
touch  to  his  picture,  draw  his  colors  from  fancy  ? 
Would  he  not  rather  imitate  the  color  of  the  nat 
ural  rose,  copy  the  forest  green,  the  azure  of  the 
sky,  or  the  brilliant  hues  of  the  rainbow,  as  it 
spans  the  heavens  with  its  bow  of  promise  ? 

Fiction  may  weave  her  intricate  labyrinths  and 
enchain  the  fancy  by  wandering  in  mazy  circuits, 
and  weaving  her  mystic  web ;  but  -truth  will 
stand  in  all  its  primitive  lustre,  when  the  founda 
tions  of  this  earth  have  passed  away.  Then  let 
me  record  the  truth  in  preference  to  fiction. 

The  clouds  hung  in  heavy  dense  masses,  during 
the  day,  while  a  damp  chilly  wind  from  the  north 
east  betokened  an  uncomfortable  winter  rain.  It 
was  winter,  although  the  bridge  of  ice  that  had 

5G 


154  AN   EVENING   IN   OUR   VILLAGE. 

been  formed  over  the  Blackstone  was  broken  up, 
and  floated  on  its  surface  in  huge  masses,  as  it  hur 
ried  rapidly  along,  to  empty  them  into  the  waters 
of  the  Narragansett  Bay,  reminding  the  thoughtful 
observer  of  the  stream  of  time,  bearing  away  its 
vast  multitudes  to  the  ocean  of  eternity. 

Here,  where  now  stands  our  beautiful  village,  a 
few  short  years  since  stood  the  dense  forest — the 
growth  of  centuries.  Here  the  rude  Indian  roam 
ed,  in  native  wildness,  hunted  his  prey,  built  his 
council  fire,  or  smoked  his  pipe  of  peace.  Here, 
where  now  stands  the  temple  of  the  living  God, 
with  its  heaven  directed  spire,  perchance  smoked 
the  blood  of  some  poor  victim,  as  it  was  offered 
upon  the  altar  of  savage  brutality  ;  or  the  rude 
wigwam  stood. 

But  all  these  things  have  passed,  as  a  tale  that 
is  told.  They  have  floated  down  the  current  of 
time,  even  like  the  broken  masses  of  ice  that  are 
borne  so  rapidly  down  our  river,  and  have  passed 
into  the  broad  ocean  of  eternity. 

On  the  banks  of  that  stream,  where  the  pale 
face  first  crossed  to  hold  a  council  with  his  red 
brethren,  stands  a  flourishing  village,  reared  by 
the  hand  of  civilization,  and  offering  many  facili 
ties  to  the  industry  of  its  virtuous  and  well  dis 
posed  inhabitants.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  tell  a 
tale  of  the  times  of  old,  of  the  deeds  of  the  days 
of  other  years,  of  the  Indian  that  paddled  his  light 
canoe  upon  our  river  ;  but  this  is  not  the  purport 
of  the  story. 

It  is  to  scan  the  different  scenes  as  they  lay 
spread  out  before  us,  upon  the  map  of  busy  life. 


AN    EVENING    IN    OUR  VILLAGE.  155 

The  day  had  closed,  dark,  dreary  and  cheerless. 
The  rain  and  sleet  were  driven  furiously  before 
the  wind,  and  the  child  of  want  shrank  from  the 
biting  blast,  as  stern  necessity  drove  him  forth  to 
meet  the  peltings  of  the  winter  storm. 

There  was  a  social  gathering  at  a  large,  elegant 
ly  finished  and  furnished  hall,  splendidly  illumi 
nated  with  its  brilliant  gas  lights,  diffusing  a  lus 
tre  upon  gorgeous  trappings  with  which  they  were 
surmounted. 

The  streets  resounded  with  the  rattling  wheels 
of  omnibusses,  cabs  and  various  vehicles,  as 
they  bore  the  gay  and  fashionable  part  of  the  vil 
lage  to  the  splendid  hall. 

Soft  music  charmed  the  ear,  and  floated  in  sweet 
melody  through  the  apartment.  Beauty  was 
there,  with  rosy  cheek  and  brilliant  eye.  Fashion 
displayed  her  most  tasteful  arrangements,  and  each 
one  seemed  vicing  with  the  other  in  elegance  of 
costume.  All  looked  like  the  enchanting  scenes 
pictured  in  fairy  tales,  and  one  might  almost  sup 
pose  Alladiu's  wonderful  lamp  was  still  extant, 
performing  its  mysterious  spells,  and  casting  a  su 
pernatural  lustre  over  the  gay  group  that  assem 
bled,  to  dissipate  the  cheerless  gioom  that  reigned 
without,  by  mirth  and  hilarity.  And  they  joined 
in  the  mazy  dance,  and  spent  the  hours  of  night 
in  joyous  revelry.  A  sumptuous  entertainment 
was  prepared,  and  everything  provided  to  satisfy 
the  votaries  of  pleasure. 

But  as  the  lively  music  sounded  frem  that  splen 
did  hall,  it  stole  upon  the 
6G 


156  AN   EVENING   IN    OUE   VILLAGE. 

"  Cold,  dull  oar  of  death," 

for,  but  a  few  rods  distant,  lay  a  female,  little 
passed  the  meridian  of  life  (who  had  lived  in  the 
same  village,  and  trod  in  the  pathway  of  life  with 
them  many  years),  wrapped  in  the  shroud  of  death, 
and  next  day  to  be  borne  away  to  the  tomb,  and 
shut  out  forever  from  all  the  scenes  where  she  had 
once  been  an  actress.  But  now  she  would  look 
out  upon  the  world  no  more.  Her  eyes  were 
closed  in  death,  and  her  ear  heard  not  the  wild 
music  that  was  stealing  through  her  otherwise 
silent  chamber. 

All  of  earth  had  passed  from  her  vision.  Life, 
with  its  stern,  cold  realities,  or  its  light  toned  rev 
elry,  could  awaken  no  response  in  her  inanimate 
form. 

A  brother  had  been  summoned  from  a  distant 
village  to  attend  her  funeral.  He  had  travelled, 
notwithstanding  the  inclemency  of  the  weather, 
and  when  the  shades  of  twilight  fell  over  the 
earth,  he  stood  by  that  dearly  loved  form.  Mem-? 
ory  brought  back  the  past.  That  cold,  pulseless 
one  was  a  child  again,  sporting  by  his  side,  prat 
tling  upon  his  knee,  and  winning  attention  by  the 
ten  thousand  witcheries  of  childhood. 

Then,  with  the  rapidity  of  thought,  blooming 
youth  succeeded  this  age,  and  she  stood,  blushing 
in  maiden  modesty,  the  gay  young  sister  of  other 
days ;  and  his  heart  was  filled  with  sadness  as  he 
gazed  upon  her  stiff  in  the  icy  arms  of  death,  and 
felt  that  she  could  no  more  return  his  affection. 
He  was  an  aged  man,  and  knew  much  of  the  sor- 


AN   EVENING    IN    OUR    VILLAGE.  157 

row  and  the  trials  of  life;  he  turned,  with  a  tear 
in  his  eye,  from  his  loved  sister  and  passed  into  the 
street. 

The  storm  was  increasing,  but  he  heeded  not 
the  peltings  of  the  wintry  wind,  or  the  wild  music 
that  mingled  with  its  mournful  wail,  as  he  passed 
the  luxurious  hall,  where 

"  Fashion's  gay  tapers  were  lighted." 

Other  thoughts  occupied  his  mind. 

He  soon  stood  by  the  bedside  of  a  dear  daugh 
ter,  who  was  passing  away  from  earth,  while  yet 
in  the  bloom  and  the  beauty  of  youth.  She  was 
a  wife,  and  a  mother  of  two  sweet  children,  whose 
tender  age  required  a  mother's  watchfulness — a 
mother's  care.  But  with  childlike  trust,  she  had 
given  them  back  to  that  God,  who  had  given  them 
to  her.  Her  trust  was  in  him,  and  now  she  was 
ready  to  follow  her  dear  Saviour  into  the  cold 
dark  grave,  with  the  assurance  that  she  should 
have  a  part  in  the  first  resurrection.  Melancholy 
sounded  the  music  from  that  distant  ball  room,  as 
it  stole  upon  the  wings  of  the  winter  wind,  into 
the  chamber  of  the  dying  one.  Pier  ear  was  lis 
tening  to  catch  the  notes  of  angel  harps  before 
the  throne  of  God,  and  her  passing  spirit  was  at 
tuned  to  their  melodies.  The  beauties  of  the  up 
per  world  transfixed  her  rapt  vision,  and  no  earthly 
object  stood  between  her  soul  and  God.  And  so 
she  passed  away,  and  left  to  her  earthly  friends 
but  the  frail  casket,  while  the  priceless  jewel  had 


158  AN   EVENING    IN   OUR   VILLAGE. 

soared  to  brighter  regions,  to  glitter  in  a  Saviour's 
crown. 

The  father  had  come  just  in  time  to  take  the 
last  look  of  his  living  child,  to  hear  her  last  words, 
to  witness  her  last  struggle,  as  the  pure  spirit  de 
parted  from  earth,  to  join  her  sainted  mother  in 
the  spirit  land.  He  was  taking  another  portion 
from  the  cup  of  affliction,  which  however  bitter 
to  the  taste,  often  swreetens  the  journey  of  human 
life,  preparing  the  recipient  better  to  perform  its 
duties,  and  bear  its  trials. 

As  the  stricken  father  retired  to  bed,  the  sound 
of  revelry  fell  heavily  upon  an  almost  bursting 
heart. 

And  the  dear  children,  could  they  listen  to  its 
glad  strain  ?  O,  no  ;  they  had  seen  death  cast  his 
marble  paleness  upon  their  mother's  face  ;  had 
felt  the  icy  coldness  of  her  pulseness  limbs ;  had 
called  her  by  the  endearing  name  of  mother,  and 
her  pale  lips  answered  not,  and  they  had  retired 
with  eyes  red  with  weeping  ;  they  as  yet  knew 
nothing  of  the  extent  of  their  bereavement.  The 
husband,  too,  had  lost  the  companion  of  his  youth, 
the  mother  of  his  children,  and  although  he  pos 
sessed  like  precious  faith  with  her,  and  kissed  the 
rod  with  pious  resignation  ;  still  they  were  a  grief- 
stricken  household,  and  presented  a  striking  con 
trast  to  the  gay  group  that  were  dancing  thought 
lessly  awray  the  hours  of  that  solemn  night,  while 
the  recording  angel  was  taking  note  of  all  that 
was  passing  beneath  his  all-seeing  eye,  in  that 
book  that  shall  be  opened  when  we  shall  all  stand 


AN    EVENING   IN   OUR   VILLAGE.  159 

before  God,  to  be  judged  according  to  the  deeds 
done  in  the  body. 

The  music  floated  on  and  reached  the  ear  of  a 
poor  maniac  as  he  sat  by  his  comfortable  fire,  lis 
tening  to  the  monotonous  roar  of  the  distant 
water  fall,  and  the  howling  of  the  wintry  winds, 
as  it  came  surging  on,  waving  the  leafless  tree 
and  pelting  the  falling  rain  against  the  windows. 

"  Hark!"  said  he,  springing  up,  "  the  bees  are 
swarming  ;  I  shall  be  stung  to  death,"  and  out  he 
rushed,  with  a  brighter  fire  in  his  eye  and  a  more 
intense  one  in  his  brain.  Descending  the  hill,  he 
watched  the  sylph  like  forms  as  they  floated  on 
in  the  mazy  dance,  declaring  the  bees  were  in  ter 
rible  commotion,  and  he  should  be  stung  to  death. 
With  difficulty  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  return  to 
his  house,  and  ever  and  anon,  as  the  sound  of  the 
music  reached  his  ear,  he  would  start  and  affirm 
that  the  bees  surely  were  swarming. 

Such  is  man,  the  noblest  work  of  God,  when 
bereft  of  reason  to  guide  and  direct  him. 

Still  farther  on  were  young  parents  keeping 
anxious  watch  over  a  sick  infant,  whose  feeble 
thread  of  life  seemed  trembling  upon  a  very  hair. 
The  doctor  had  said  there  was  no  hope ;  kind, 
sympathizing  friends,  as  they  looked  on  the  suffer 
ings  of  the  dear  babe  with  tearful  eyes,  had  said, 
there  is  no  hope  ;  and  the  agonized  hearts  of  the 
parents  echoed  back,  no  hope.  But  still  they  did 
hope.  The  breath  came  heavily  from  the  heaving 
chest,  and  the  blue  orbs  looked  dimly  from  their 
half  closed  lids,  while  the  little  sufferer,  with 
burning  hand  and  parched  lip,  seemed  struggling 


160  AN    EVENING   IN   OUR    VILLAGE. 

for  that  life  that  it  had  enjoyed  but  for  so  brief  a 
space.  The  parents  were  young  in  years  and  un 
acquainted  with  sorrow,  and  very  dear  to  their 
loving  hearts  was  the  sick  infant.  They  felt  they 
could  not  part  with  the  dear  one.  Carefully  they 
nursed  the  flickering  lamp  of  life  through  that 
dreary  winter  night,  lest  some  ruder  blast  should 
extinguish  it  forever.  Wished  they  to  join  the 
thoughtless  throng  in  the  tinselled  hall  of  fash 
ion  ?  0,  no,  they  had  rather  count  the  fluttering 
pulses  of  their  dear  boy,  cool  his  fevered  brow, 
and  administer  the  reviving  cordial  through  the 
weary  hours  of  the  night,  than  to  listen  to  sweet 
est  strains  of  Orpheus'  harp,  or  thread  the  wind 
ing  mazes  of  the  giddy  dance. 

And  so  with  them  the  night  wore  away,  the 
long  dark  night  of  suffering  to  the  babe,  and 
watchful  anxiety  to  the  parents.  But  the  angel 
of  death  that  had  hovered  so  long  over  the  darling 
babe,  unfurled  his  sable  pinions  and  flew  away  in 
search  of  another  victim,  and  he  is  spared  yet  a 
little  longer. 

Pursuing  the  way  a  little  farther  in  another 
direction,  you  find  another  weary  watcher  by  the 
midnight  lamp.  An  aged  woman,  who  has  lived 
her  three  score  years  and  ten,  sits  bolstered  up  in 
her  chair,  toiling  for  her  little  remaining  sum  of 
existence,  which  nature  seems  unwilling  to  relin 
quish,  although  subsisting  now  upon  borrowed 
time.  From  an  adjoining  room  comes  a  frequent 
hollow  cough,  and  the  sunken  eye  and  emaciated 
frame  of  the  poor  girl  betray  the  secret  foe,  lurk 
ing  in  the  hidden  springs  of  life. 


AN   EVENING   IN   OUR   VILLAGE.  161 

Death  is  no  stranger  beneath  this  roof,  lie  has 
borne  away  one  after  another  from  this  numerous 
household,  and  laid  them  down  side  by  side  in 
the  silent  grave.  And  now  his  darts  seem  aimed 
at  the  two  only  ones  of  that  household,  the  mother 
and  her  daughter.  The  sons  are  married  and  have 
families  of  their  own,  but  the  mother  and  this 
daughter  live  alone  in  the  home  of  her  youth,  the 
very  place,  perchance,  where  she  was  brought  a 
gay  and  expecting  bride  by  that  husband  she  is 
expecting  now  to  follow  so  soon  to  the  spirit 
world.  Could  the  pleasures  or  the  gaities  of  the 
world  cast  one  cheering  beam  upon  their  lonely 
home  ?  O,  no,  the  religion  of  Jesus  alone  can 
illuminate  their  benighted  hearts,  and  in  "  this 
light  they  see  light,"  and  feel  prepared  to  go 
when  the  summons  comes. 

Following  the  street,  you  pass  the  door  of  a 
daughter  who  is  weeping  for  the  recent  loss  of  a 
mother,  who  passes  suddenly  away  without  a 
moment's  warning,  and  a  widow  who  mourns  a 
husband,  cut  off  by  lingering  disease. 

A  few  steps  and  we  reach  a  cottage,  where  oth 
er  parents  were  watching  over  a  little  son  of  live 
years,  who  is  wasting  away  with  consumption. 
His  attenuated  limbs  bear  his  little  frame  but 
feebly,  and  he  often  talks  of  death,  for  he  has  re 
cently  seen  a  little  sister  younger  than  himself 
fall  a  prey  to  the  fearful  malady.  A  burning- 
fever  is  raging  in  his  veins,  and  lights  up  his  eye 
with  unwonted  brilliancy,  as  he  tossed  restlessly 
from  side  to  side  upon  his  pillow.  His  silken 
hair  of  beautiful  brown  is  brushed  smoothly  back 


162  AN    EVENING    IN   OUR   VILLAGE. 

from  his  high,  marble  forehead,  while  gentle  hands 
apply  the  cooling  bath,  to  still  if  possible,  its 
tumultuous  throbbings,  and  he  murmurs  of  sweet 
sister  and  of  heaven.  Soft  words  of  love  are 
whispered  in  his  ear,  and  he  is  told  of  the  Lamb 
of  God  that  bids  little  children  to  come  unto  him. 

And  thought  not  these  weary  watchers  of  that 
lonely  night,  of  the  revellers  in  that  distant  hall  ? 
Methinks  their  hearts  went  up  in  fervent  prayer 
to  God  that  he  would  spare  them  yet  a  little  lon 
ger,  for  there  were  immortal  souls  there,  for  whom 
he  labored  and  prayed,  who  entered  the  sanctuary 
and  heard  the  word  of  God  as  it  fell  from  his  lips, 
Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  and  he  felt  sensibly  that 
the  midnight  revel  would  not  prepare  the  heart  to 
seek  God,  or  make  the  necessary  preparation  for 
death.  Towards  morning  the  eyes  of  the  little 
sufferer  closed  in  uneasy  slumber,  and  the  parents 
too,  were  refreshed  by  a  short  interval  of  sleep. 

Passing  yet  in  another  direction  was  a  tall  youth, 
with  a  subdued  expression  of  countenance,  hurry 
ing  on,  in  spite  of  wind  and  rain,  to  the  doctor's 
office,  to  procure  assistance  for  a  sick  mother,  who 
was  tossing  in  all  the  agony  of  brain  fever. 
The  doctor  had  been  called  awray  to  visit  a  little 
child  that  had  a  sudden  attack  of  the  croup,  that 
fearful  diseose  that  bears  so  many  children  to  the 
tomb.  He  returned  again  with  a  sorrowing  heart. 
Heeded  he  the  sweet  tones  of  music  that  fell  upon 
his  youthful  ear  ?  wished  he  to  join  the  gay  group 
as  they  flitted  before  the  brilliantly  lighted  win 
dow,  and  the  fairy  forms  of  the  fashionable,  and 
the  pleasure-seeking  met  his  eye  ?  O,  no  ;  there 


AN   EVENING    IN   OUH   VILLAGE.  163 

was  sorrow  in  his  young  heart,  and  sorrow  brood 
ed  over  the  household.  Towards  midnight  the 
doctor  came,  and  a  young  daughter,  younger  than 
many  who  graced  the  festive  ball,  following  his 
directions,  alleviated  the  sufferings  of  a  sick 
mother,  and  wore  the  weary  night  away  in  anxious 
watchings. 

Not  till  another  day  dawned,  did  the  rumbling 
of  the  carriages  cease,  that  were  conveying  home 
the  sons  and  daughters  of  dissipation.  And  thus 
passed  the  night,  leaving  no  trace  upon  earth,  for 
the  waves  of  time  have  obliterated  all  its  foot 
prints.  But  its  record  is  on  high,  and  it  will  never 
be  forgotten  by  the  Eternal  One,  whose  eye  slum- 
bereth  not. 

Such  is  human  life,  and  such  is  the  race  of  man. 
Although  we  are  all  bound  together  by  one  com 
mon  brotherhood,  the  song  of  the  gay  is  ever  the 
funeral  dirge  to  the  sorrowing. 

Perchance  that  night  might  have  disclosed  still 
darker  pictures  in  the  hidden  recesses  of  our  vil 
lage,  for,  oh,  there  are  dens  of  foul  pollution,  that 
send  their  infectious  taint  over  the  pure  air  of  our 
community,  calling  the  blush  of  shame  to  the 
cheek  of  conscious  virtue,  and  creating  an  ardent 
desire  in  the  breast  of  the  philanthropist,  to  go 
forth  and  labor  in  the  vineyard  of  the  Lord,  that 
these  foul  spots  may  be  washed  in  his  precious 
blood,  and  made  clean. 

O,  could  all  the  misery  that  was  extant  in  the 
village  have  been  presented  to  the  thoughtless 
revellers,  could  they  have  danced  on?  Would 
not  the  tear  of  sympathy  have  moistened  the 


164  AN    EVENING    IN    OUR   VILLAGE. 

cheek,  and  the  still  small  voice  whispered  of  a 
solemn  time  that  must  come  to  them  ?  0,  it  is 
wise  to  receive  the  admonition,  "  Be  ye  also  ready, 
for  in  such  an  hour  as  ye  think  not,  the  Son  of 
Man  cometh." 

Faint,  indeed,  are  the  delineations  from  Memo 
ry's  tablet,  upon  this  little  map,  bat  enough,  per 
chance,  to  lead  the  contemplative  mind  to  reflect 
upon  the  vicissitudes  and  changes  of  its  little  day, 
and  teach  us  to  prepare  for  a  better  world,  "  where 
change  comes  not. 


CONTEMPLATIONS. 


CONTEMPLATIONS  IN  A  GRAVE  YARD, 

'TwAs  on  one  pensive  even  tide, 

When  restless  toil  arid  day  had  fled. 

I  laid  all  airy  scenes  aside, 
To  wander  o'er  the  silent  dead. 

The  rising  moon  from  eastern  sky, 
O'er  the  lone  heath  shed  languid  light, 

And  boding  owls  with  fearful  cry 

Heightened  the  solemn  gloom  of  night. 

With  pensive  steps  I  reach'd  the  pile, 
Whero  well  wrought  limbs  return  to  clay ; 

And  tow'ring  marble's  pompous  style 
Points  out  the  great,  the  rich,  the  gay. 

But  where's  ambition's  piercing  eye, 
His  restless  look,  his  haughty  air  ? 

They're  vanish'd  all,  and  near  him  lie 
Frames  that  once  fed  on  black  despair. 

What  though  the  marble's  rais'd  o'er  one, 
To  tell  his  former  wealth  or  worth, 

While  a  green  turf,  or  mossy  stone, 
Denote  the  man  of  humbler  birth. 

Yet  all  in  silence  mould'ring  lie 

In  the  cold  grave  where  vapors  glide, 

The  beggar  here  's  as  fair  as  he 

Who  rolled  in  wealth,  or  swam  in  pride. 

"Neath  a  green  mound  there  slept  a  youth, 
Whose  form  in  life  in  beauty  bloom'd  : 

His  manner  sweet,  bis  speech  was  truth, 
But  aought  could  save  him  from  the  tomb  = 


166  CONTEMPLATIONS. 

At  little  distance  from  his  side, 
A  wild  rose  shod  a  pearly  tear 

O'er  her  who  would  have  been  his  bride, 
Had  not  dread  death  been  thus  severe. 

I  mus'd  in  silence  on  their  fate, 

And  watch' d  the  graves  where  low  they  Iie7 
Reflecting  on  their  altered  state, 

From  nuptial  bliss  to  mould'ring  clay. 

And  such,  methinks,  the  lot  of  all; 

We  picture  joys  with  eager  eye, 
'Till  death's  damp  curtains  round  us  fall, 

And  silent  in  his  arms  we  lie. 

Beneath  a  verdant,  grassy  mound, 

Where  gemmed  with  dew  the  daisy  weeps  ; 

In  death's  cold  slumber  wrapped  profound, 
A  gentle  mother  peaceful  sleeps. 

No  storied  urn  bespeaks  her  worth. 

No  epitaph  or  stone  is  near  ; 
But  the  wild  flow'rs  that  strew  the  earth, 

Are  watered  oft  by  many  a  tear. 

And  oh,  such  tribute  is  more  dear — 
Warm  gushitg  from  affection's  eye, 

Than  the  cold  marble's  senseless  praise, 
That  sheds  no  tear — that  heaves  no  sigh. 

A  little  path  is  closely  worn, 

Where  prattling  children  often  stray, 

And  o'er  their  sainted  mother  mourn, 
To  shield  her  memory  from  decay. 

And  hoary  age  has  sunk  to  rest, 

Deep  buried  'ueath  the  crumbling  sod ; 

No  anxious  cares  disturb  his  breast, — 
His  ransom'd  soul  has  flown  to  God. 


CONTEMPLATIONS,  167 

Weary  and  sad,  he  straggled  on 
Life's  rugged  pathway,  till  its  close  ; 

And  then,  in  death,  lay  calmly  down, 
To  slumber  in  its  deep  repose. 

I  turn'd  to  view  a  little  grave, 

Where  infant  sweetness  silent  slept ; 

There  the  tall  myrtle  mournful  wav'd, — 
The  willow  there  in  sorrow  slept. 

"  Sleep  on,"  I  cried,  "  thy  little  breast 
Ne'er  knew  the  heartfelt  woes  of  men ; 

No  pain  or  care  disturb  thy  rest, 
Or  jarring  scenes  obstruct  thy  ken. 

"  Happy,  like  thee,  might  I  resign 

This  life  in  Virtue's  purest  ray, 
And  spring  to  life  and  joy  divine, 

Free  from  this  cumbrous  load  of  clay." 

But  hark  !  I  hear  the  boding  owl, 

With  fearful  screams  at  distance  cry  ;• 

The  evening  breezes  mournful  howl, 
And  bats  their  nightly  circles  ply. 

Thick,  sombre  clouds  obscur'd  the  sky, 
And  hid  the  moon's  refulgent  light  — 

No  sparkling  star  shed  cheerful  ray, 
To  light  the  lonely  shades  of  night. 

I  grop'd  my  way  with  careful  tread, 

To  shun  the  cold,  unconscious  urn, 
And  left  the  mansions  of  the  dead, 

Where  soon  or  late  I  must  return. 

For  I  must  sleep  with  ages  past, 

And  ages  yet  to  come, 
Till  the  last  trump  of  God  shall  wake 

Each  tenant  of  the  tomb. 


SCENE    ON    THE    KENNEBEC. 


A  SCENE    ON  THE  KENNEBEC  RIVER. 


IT  was  a  beautiful  morning  in  early  June,  and 
nature  was  dressed  in  her  beautiful  robes  of  pale 
green,  as  the  leaves  had  not  yet  assumed  that 
deeper  hue  that  the  mature  rays  of  a  summer  sun 
impart  to  them.  No  cloud  floated  over  the  blue 
vault  of  heaven.  The  golden  sun  diffused  a  rad 
iant  light,  and  shed  a  sparkling  lustre  upon  the 
deep,  black  water  of  the  mighty  river,  that  rolled 
on  in  gentle  undulating  waves,  as  it  was  tossed 
lightly  by  the  sighing  breeze  that  floated  over  its 
surface. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  scan  were  seen  the  snowy 
sails,  as  the  mariners  pursued  their  way  over  the 
black  bosom  of  the  waters  to  enter  the  briny  At 
lantic,  that  received  the  waters  of  the  rolling 
river  and  mingled  them  with  its  own  foaming 
wave.  The  smaller  sail  boats  were  flying  before 
the  wind,  while  innumerable  ships  lay  at  rest  in 
the  harbor,  with  snowy  sails  unfurled,  while  the 
rough  cry  of  the  sailors  broke  boisterously  upon 
the  morning  air. 


SCENE    ON   THE    KENNEBEC.  169 

At  the  wharf,  before  the  flourishing  village  that 
lay  reposing  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  lay  a  ferry 
boat,  impatient  to  launch  away  upon  the  restless 
waters. 

There  was  hurry  and  bustle  as  the  time  for  the 
boat's  departure  had  arrived,  and  many  wished  to 
be  borne  to  the  opposite  shore. 

Among  the  rest  came  a  gay  group  of  laughing 
school  girls.  Their  joyous  faces  were  lit  up  with 
bright  smiles,  and  they  w^ere  chatting  gaily  of 
the  afternoon's  party,  and  the  anticipated  even 
ing's  walk,  heedless  of  the  care  worn  man  of  busi 
ness  that  shuffled  in  by  their  side,  or  prudent 
ladies  who  looked  upon  the  gay  party  as  pert  or 
presuming.  They  were,  many  of  them,  the  chil 
dren  of  wealth,  and  waved  in  their  hands  rich 
boquets  of  beautiful  and  rare  exotics,  while  others 
were  equally  satisfied  with  more  simple  flowers. 
They  advanced  to  the  head  of  the  boat,  and  stood 
with  their  hands  placed  upon,  its  edge,  looking 
over  into  the  deep  waters.  One  beautiful  form 
attracted  the  attention  of  all  wTho  looked  upon 
her.  Her  form  was  slight  and  delicate.  Her  com 
plexion  was  transparent,  but  a  slight  tinge  of 
pink  rested  upon  her  cheek.  Her  azure  eyes 
beamed  with  a  sweet  expression  from  their  soul- 
lit  depths,  while  her  dark  brown  hair  floated  in 
heavy  masses  of  glossy  curls  over  her  ivory  neck 
and  shoulders,  waving  gently  in  the  morning 
breeze,  as  it  floated  lightly  around  her.  She  was 
dressed  in  a  simple  wThite  robe,  and  in  her  hand 
held  the  richest  boquet.  Her  snowy  arms  were 
bare  almost  to  the  shoulder,  and  as  she  stood  look- 

lH 


SCENE   ON   THE    KENNEtfEC. 

ing  out  upon  the  far  off  sail,  or  watching  the  en 
trance  of  her  fellow  passengers,  as  they  took  their 
respective  places  in  the  boat ;  no  eye  that  looked 
upon  her  but  lingered  in  its  gaze  to  admire  her 
beauty. 

Then  came  a  rich  man  and  his  lady,  and  there 
must  be  room  in  the  boat  for  their  splendid  equip 
age,  and  so  his  gay  horse  stoo-d  champing  his  bitts 
and  curbing  his  proud  head,  as  his  fiery  eyes 
glanced  over  the  glassy  surface  of  the  restless 
waters. 

All  was  ready,  the  signal  was  given,  and  the 
boat  ploughed  her  way  like  a  thing  of  life,  leav-- 
ing  a  long  path  of  white  foam  in  her  wake. 

Men  talked  of  business,  of  the  prospect  of  the 
advancing  season,  the  pressure  in  the  money  mar 
ket,  or  the  perfidy  of  the  opposing  political  party. 

Women  talked  about  their  cross  children,  un 
faithful  servants,  and  various  domestic  trials. 

The  young  girls  talked  of  their  school,  their 
boquets,  and  the  many  little  events  in  which  they 
were  interested,  while  a  group  of  school  boys,- 
who  had  entered  last,  and  were  obliged  to  stand 
in  the  rear  of  the  boat,  declared  they  had  never 
seen  the  fair  queen  of  that  party  looking  so  love- 

iy- 

But  suddenly  there  was  a  jar,  a  scream,  a  plunge, 
and  that  fairy  form  was  precipitated  into  the  foam 
ing  waters  beneath,  and  the  boat  was  gliding  on 
with  such  rapidity  that  no  arm  could  reach  her. 
She  sank  slowly  from  sight,  as  her  spreading  robe 
buoyed  her  up  for  a  moment  on  the  waves.  Her 
long  curls  lay  spread  out,  tossing  upon  the  sur- 


171  SCENE    ON   THE   KENNEBEC. 

face  by  the  motion  of  the  waves,  then  as  they 
sank,  slowly  from  sight,  one  snowy  hand  was 
raised,  clutching  the  boquet  with  a  tenacity  so 
proverbial  to  the  drowning.  She  then  sank  to 
sleep  beneath  the  surging  waves  that  danced  light 
ly  on  over  her  death  cold  bosom. 

None  could  tell  exactly  how  the  accident  hap 
pened.  The  horse,  unused  to  that  mode  of  con 
veyance,  became  restive,  and  in  his  plungings  to 
liberate  himself  precipitated  the  unfortunate  girl, 
with  all  her  gay  dreams  of  life  and  pleasure,  into 
a  watery  grave. 

The  tide  was  going  out,  and  she  fell  into  the 
rapid  current,  and  when  her  body  was  recovered 
no  traces  of  beauty  rested  upon  her  marble  fea 
tures,  and  none  who  looked  upon  the  black,  bloat 
ed  face  and  lips  of  the  poor  girl  could  recognize 
the  bright  beauty  of  that  joyous  morning.  The 
withered  boquet  was  covered  with  green  slime, 
and  like  the  hand  that  held  it,  bore  no  resemblance 
to  its  former  self.  "  Surely  in  the  midst  of  life 
we  are  in  death." 
2n 


TO    MISS   II. 


TO  Miss  H B , 

THESE    LINES   ARE   AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED  BY 


MAIDEN,  for  thee  I'd  tune  the  lyre  ; 
Might. minstrelsy  my  song  inspire  ; 
Could  I  a  gifted  off'ring  bring, 
I'd  boldly  sweep  each  silken  string, 
And  wake  a  sweet  and  thrilling  strain, 
Thy  heart  would  echo  back  again. 

But  though  so  feebly  sings  my  muse, 

I  trust  her  song  thou'lt  not  refuse  ; 

But  all  unaided  by  the  Kino, 

Accept  the  boon  from  friendship's  shrine. 

Youth  round  thee  her  garland  weaves, 

Of  varied  flow'rs  and  verdant  leaves, 

And  leads  thee  forth  in  gardens  fair, 

To  cull  exotics  rich  and  rare. 

And  knowledge  bids  thy  youthful  mind, 

Wisdom,  in  her  choice  fruits  to  find. 

But  sober  age  holds  st^rn  control 

O'er  the  deep  currents  of  my  soul ; 

I  may  not  pause  to  cull  the  flow'rs, 

That  bloom  in  fancy's  fairy  bow'rs, 

But  onward  press,  from  day  to  day, 

In  duty's  stern  and  rugged  way  ; 

Yet  ever  upward  may  I  rise, 

To  yon  bright  world  beyond  the  skies. 

Your  cheek  is  ting'd  with  youthful  bloom, 
AVhile  mine  is  faded  for  the  tomb, 


TO    MISS   II.   B.  173 

And  blended  time  with  anxious  care, 
Have  left  their  deep  impressions  there. 

In  graceful  curls  your  ringlets  stray, 

While  mingle  mine  with  mournful  gray. 

Hope  spreads  gay  roses  in  your  way, 

And  points  to  many  a  future  day, — 

And  flinging  wild  her  scented  flow'rs, 

Beckons  to  her  rosy  bow'rs  ; 

But  I  have  seen  such  hopes  decay, 

And  each  fair  promise  fade  away; 

Have  seen  the  syren  beckon  on, — 

And  spread  new  charms  when  one  had  flown, 

Till  ev'ry  blooming  flow'ret  died, 

And  wither'd  leaves  hung  by  my  side. 

Then,  maiden,  do  not  cling  to  earth, 
Whose  hopes  are  of  so  little  worth, 
But  now  in  youth  thy  heart  be  given, 
In  childlike  confidence,  to  heav'n; 
Then  hope  within  your  breast  shall  rise, 
Ever  to  bloom  in  paradise ; 
And  you,  an  angel  bright,  shall  stand, 
To  sing  and  shine  at  God's  right  hand. 

Maiden,  this  is  my  prayer  for  thee — 
Far  reaching  to  eternity  ;  .. 
And  when,  like  mine,  your  setting  sun 
Proclaims  life's  journey  almost  run, 
O,  may  his  last — his  sinking  ray, 
Beam  on  a  brighter,  happier  day. 
Forgive,  dear  maid,  my  truthful  strain — 
Say  not,  such  reas'ning  is  in  vain  ; 
Say  not  that  age  is  ever  blind, 
And  disappointment  sours  the  mind  ; 
But,  oh  !  the  voice  of  warning  heed — 
And  quickly  to  the  Saviour  speed  ; 
For  Jesus  tells  you  "  there  is  room," 
And  to  the  weary  soul  says,  "  Come  ;" 

3H 


174  TO    MISS   II.    B. 

Then  lean  your  head  upon  his  breast. 
And  you  shall  have  the  promis'd  rest. 

When  you  shall  touch  your  gifted  lyre, 
Glowing  with  sweet,  seraphic  fire, 
0  then,  remember  mo  again, 
And  wake  for  mo  one  pleasing  strain. 


LINES, 

'WRITTEN     IN     AN    'ALBUM. 

"  Then  Jesua  -6»id  unto  her,  Mary." 

*•"  MARY."  the  ris'n  Saviour  said, 

In  accents  sweet  and  low  ; 
•  '  Mary  :"  fihe  rais'd  her  drooping  head, 

The  form  she  sought  to  know. 

Mary  had  linger'd  by  the  cross, 

To  see  her  Saviour  die  ; 
.Had  seen  him  wrapp'd  in  linen  fine, 

In  Joseph's  temb  to  lie. 

How  she  had  come  at  early  dawn, 

Laden  with  rich  perfume, 
To  shed  her  tears  beside  his  form — 

Her  fragraoeo  round  his  tornb. 

But,  lo!  he  lives;  0,  glad  surprise;! 

Has  ris'n  from  the  grave  ; 
_Aud  now,  before  her  ravish'd  eyes, 

Proclaims  his  power  to  save. 

"May  you,  who  bear  that  gentle  namo, 

This  Saviour's  call-obey ; 
And  he  will  lead  you  by  his  grace, 

To  realms  ef  endless  day. 

.Mary  had  follow'd  to  the  cross — 
Had  sought  him  at  the  tomb  ; 

iSo  may  you  follow,  seek  and  find  ; 
He  calls — "  there  still  is  room." 


A    LONG    NIGHT    IN    THE 


A  LONG  NIGHT  IN  THE   EIGHTEENTH 
CENTURY. 


THE  hardy  and  enterprising  inhabitants,  who 
first  penetrated  the  eastern  forests,  to  fell  their 
hardy  oaks,  and  build  up  settlements,  in  the  then 
remote  east,  had  many  difficulties  to  encounter, 
which  later  generations  know  nothing  of.  In  the 
latter  part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  two  families 
lived  in  their  log  cabins,  in  the  interior  of  the 
forest.  They  had  each  a  small  cleared  spot  of 
land,  that  amply  repaid  their  labor,  by  its  rich 
productions.  The  morning  sun,  as  he  shed  his  ris 
ing  beams  over  the  long  range  of  forest  trees, 
glanced  smilingly  upon  their  little  cultivated  spot, 

"  That  bloomed  like  Eden,  in  the  world's  first  spring;" 

and  they  were  contented  and  happy.  The  dense 
forest  trees,  waving  in  the  blast,  or  gently  bowing 
their  lofty  heads  before  the  milder  breeze,  made 
music  not  unlike  the  dash  of  Ocean  on  his  wind 
ing  shore. 


EIGHTEENTH  CENTURY.  177 

They  were  'fur  from  the  abodes  of  men.  The 
fashions,  the  vanities  and  the  pleasures  of  life,  held 
no  despotic  sway  in  their  breasts.  They  pursued 
"  the  even  tenor  of  their  ways,"  rising  before  the 
sun,  and  retiring  almost  with  his  sinking  beams. 

The  cows  and  sheep  went  forth  to  crop  the 
green  herbage  and  luxurious  grass,  heralding  their 
approach  by  tinkling  bells. 

No  roads  were  made,  and  the  citizens  pursued 
their  way  by  trees,  stripped  of  little  pieces  of  bark, 
by  friendly  Indians,  who  went  as  guides  to  the 
pale  faces,  that  had  come  into  their  territories,  pur 
chased  their  lands,  and  distributed  the  deadly  fire 
water  among  them,  thus  adding  fury  to  their 
already  ferocious  natures. 

The  men  were  both  house  carpenters,  and  one 
of  them  a  wheelwright ;  so  they  were  frequently 
called  upon  to  leave  their  homes,  and  go  to  some 
distant  part,  where  a  new  settlement  was  spring 
ing  up,  to  fill  the  place  of  the  forest  trees,  that  had 
fallen  before  the  woodman's  axe. 

In  the  spring  of  1773,  the  settlement  upon  the 
banks  of  the  Kennebec  river,  now  called  Gardi 
ner  (but  then  bearing  the  Indian  name  of  (Job- 
bessy),  was  progressing  rapidly.  A  saw  mill  was 
to  be  erected  upon  this  rapid  stream,  that  had 
rolled  on  for  centuries,  through  the  towering  for 
est,  only  bearing  the  Indian's  light  canoe,  as  it 
floated  over  its  glassy  surface,  and  the  dipping  of 
the  paddle,  in  the  dark  rolling  stream,  awoke  an 
answering  echo  in  her  wild  forest  haunts. 

And  so  these  men,  Mr.  Fuller  and  Capt.  Somers, 
shouldered  their  tools,  and  pursued  their  way  by 

5H 


178  A    LONG    NIGHT    IN    THE 

the  spotted  trees,  to  the  far  off  settlement,  leaving 
their  families  in  the  bosom  of  the  forest,  unpro 
tected  and  alone.  Not  unfrequently  did  the  crack 
ling  brush  denote  the  near  approach  of  the  sulky 
bear,  or  some  other  wild  beast  that  had  heretofore 
roamed  the  woods  at  large,  undisturbed,  save  by 
the  swift-winged  arrow  of  the  Indian,  as  he  pursued 
his  prey  over  the  dense  forest,  but  little  tamer 
than  the  hunted  beast.  A  discharge  of  the  rifle, 
which  they  were  ever  obliged  to  carry  with  them, 
soon  caused  the  enemy  to  retreat,  and  leave  them 
to  pursue  their  solitary  walk  unmolested. 

Often  would  the  Indians  come  along  in  droves, 
their  small  dogs  indicating  their  approach.  The 
chief  of  one  tribe  was  called  Sousup.  His  wife 
was  a  woman  of  pleasant  countenance,  and  was 
usually  very  neatly  dressed,  having  her  blanket 
of  snowy  whiteness,  while  her  moccasins  were  of 
the  nicest  material.  She  was  covered  with  wam 
pum,  and  wore  large  jewels  in  her  ears  .and- nose, 
and  large  silver  brooches  on  different  parts  of  her 
dress.  She  never  drank  the  fire-water,  and  used 
to  trade  with  the  pale  faces,  as  she  was  so  gentle 
in  her  manners  that  she  easily  won  her  way  into 
their  houses  and  hearts. 

It  was  sunset,  when  Mrs.  Fuller  had  milked  her 
cows,  and  performed  the  domestic  duties  that  de 
volved  upon  her  during  her  husband's  absence. 
She  had  laid  her  sleeping  infant  from  her  arms, 
and  her  other  children  were  placed  snugly  in  bed, 
when  she  was  startled  by  seeing  an  Indian's  dog 
emerging  from  a  clump  of  bushes  that  stood  a  few 


"EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY.  i7§ 

yards  from  the  house,  and  come  bounding  towards 
the  door. 

Her  heart  palpitated  violently,  for  frequent  re 
ports  reached  their  ears,  of  whole  families  falling 
a  fearful  prey  to  savage  brutality.  Soon  she  heard 
the  Indian  dialect  vociferated  in  loud  voices,  while 
occasionally  a  loud  savage  yell  rang  fearfully 
through  the  air,  blending  a  wild  chorus  with  the 
strains  of  the  warbling  birds,  as  they  carolled  their 
vesper  hymns  upon  the  neighboring  branches,  be 
fore  retiring  to  their  nests.  Hastily  she  closed 
her  doors,  and  skulked  away  in  a  secret  corner, 
hoping  they  would  pass  on,  and  not  disturb  her. 
She  soon  became  aware,  by  their  fierce  words, 
that  there  were  many  of  them  in  a  state  of  intoxi 
cation. 

The  heart  of  the  lonely  woman  almost  died 
within  her,  as  she  heard  their  heavy  tramp  before 
the  door.  She  had  taken  the  precaution  to  draw 
in  the  leather  string  that  was  attached  to  the 
wooden  latch,  to  raise  it,  thus  betraying  her  own 
secret.  After  pounding  upon  the  door  for  some 
time,  and  threatening  to  break  it  down  if  it  was 
'  not  opened,  the  storm  subsided,  and  she  hoped, 
by  the  sound  of  retreating  footsteps,  they  were 
pursuing  their  journey. 

She  was  soon  undeceived,  by  hearing  her  own 
name  called,  by  the  gentle  voice  of  Sousup'swife, 
or  "  squaw,"  as  he  called  her. 

She  stepped  forward  and  opened  the  door,  and 
discovered  a  large  horde  of  red  men,  wrapped  in 
dirty  blankets,  reeling  under  the  influence  of  the 
fire-water.  The  squaws  were  in  a  squalid  condi- 

6H 


ISO  A    LONG    NIGHT    IN   THE 

tion,  and  equally  drunk  with  the  men,  while  the 
papooses,  that  were  placed  in  sacks  upon  their 
backs,  peeping  up,  with  their  bare  heads  and  dirty 
faces,  added  to  the  wretchedness  of  the  scene,  and 
the  sight  of  them  blanched  the  cheek  of  the  poor 
woman,  as  she  tremblingly  looked  upon  them. 

Dove  Eye  marked  her  fear,  and  informed  her, 
in  broken  English,  that  the  Penobscot  tribe  had 
joined  with  them,  and  they  were  going  towards 
the  rising  sun,  to  hunt  moose  and  deer,  and  make 
mats  and  baskets,  to  carry  to  Boston. 

"  But,"  added  she,  "  Sousup  drink  fire-water 
and  git  much  drunk  ;  me  feel  bad,  but  Dove  Eye 
no  help  it." 

She  told  her  they  wrere  going  to  have  a  pow 
wow,  and  wished  to  go  into  a  little  cleared  spot, 
in  the  edge  of  the  forest,  near  her  dwelling.  Mrs. 
Fuller  dared  not  refuse,  and  so  she  tremblingly 
consented. 

She  told  her  tribe  the  result  of  their  confab, 
and  they  came  forward,  to  a  man,  and  laid  down 
their  rifles,  tomahawks  and  scalping  knives  at  her 
feet,  saying, 

"Me  no  hurt  white  squaw." 

They  collected  a  large  pile  of  brush,  kindled 
their  fire,  lit  their  pipes,  and  prepared  their  eve 
ning  meal,  after  which  they  commenced  their 
savage  revelry. 

They  daubed  their  faces  with  red  paint,  while 
their  greasy  black  hair  hung  in  dishevelled  masses 
down  their  backs,  and  waved  to  and  fro  as  they 
jumped  or  ran,  and  performed  the  various  evolu 
tions  of  their  mazy  dance. 


EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY.  181 

Mrs.  Fuller  lit  no  candle  during  that  fearful 
night.  She  watched  their  dusky  forms,  as  they 
flitted  by,  dimly  seen  through  the  trees,  by  the 
glaring  blaze  of  the  fire,  that  crackled  up,  throw 
ing  a  flickering  light  upon  the  majestic  fores't  trees 
that  waved  in  solemn  grandeur  above  their  heads, 
and  sighed  mournfully  as  the  night  winds  floated 
among  their  branches.  The  Indians  formed  a  cir 
cle  round  the  fire,  by  joining  hands,  and  their 
frantic  gestures  were  teriffic  to  behold,  and  their 
wild  shrieks  rent  the  air.  Twice,  and  twice  only, 
the  fearful  war-whoop  resounded,  filling  the  heart 
of  that  lonely  watcher  with  indescribable  fear. 

It  was  past  midnight ;  the  moon  had  passed  her 
zenith  in  the  sky,  and  the  swarthy  band  seemed 
frantic  with  their  wild  orgies  and  intoxication. 

Many  had  fallen,  beastly  drunk,  while  others 
swayed  like  the  forest  trees,  -rocked  by  the  wintry 
whirlwind. 

Dove  Eye  sat  on  a  mossy  rock  looking  upon  the 
scene  with  a  melancholy  expression  of  counte 
nance.  Near  her  lay  stretched  upon  the  bare 
ground,  Eagle  Eye,  the  wife  of  the  swarthy  chief, 
who  had  joined  their  tribe  in  their  hunting  excur 
sions. 

Suddenly  a  furious  din  arose,  and  it  was  evident 
that  anger  was  added  to  the  other  debasing  pas 
sions  that  were  holding  control  over  their  benight 
ed  souls.  Furious  was  the  strife  of  words,  and 
fearful  menaces  and  threats  fell  from  brutal,  sav 
age  lips. 

Suddenly  the  stranger  chief  seized  a  burning 
torch,  and  accompanied  by  a  fierce  looking  com- 


182  A    LONG    NIGHT   IN  THE 

panion,  strode  hastily  toward  the  house.  Dove 
Eye  saw  their  movements  and  sprang  hurriedly  to 
their  side,  endeavoring  to  stop  their  progress  ;  but 
they  pushed  her  aside  and  proceeded.  Mrs.  Ful 
ler,  too,  saw  them  through  the  small  pane  of  glass 
that  was  placed  in  her  board  window,  and  hope 
almost  forsook  her.  They  passed  on  :  the  light 
gleamed  through  the  pane  and  flickered  upon  the 
face  of  her  sleeping  infant.  She  heard  distinctly 
their  voices  in  low,  guttural  tones,  and  their  heavy 
tread  fell  painfully  upon  her  ear.  They  passed 
round  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  she  lost  sight 
and  sound  of  them.  She  opened  the  door  into  an 
adjoining  apartment,  and  the  light  burst  upon  her 
with  such  intense  brightness  that  she  thought  at 
first  they  had  fired  the  house.  Upon  approaching 
the  window,  she  again  discovered  them  by  the 
wood  pile  searching  for  the  axe,  which  they  soon 
raised,  and  cutting  several  sticks  of  wTood,  bore  it 
away  to  replenish  their  fire. 

In  a  short  time  their  dusky  forms  wrapped  in 
their  dirty  blankets,  were  stretched  upon  the 
damp  ground,  with  their  greasy  heads  turned  to 
wards  the  fire,  and  sleep  descended  upon  their 
weary  lids,  and  silence  .once  more  reigned  round 
that  forest  home. 

Dove  Eye  still  reclined  upon  the  rock,  watching 
the  moon  as  it  hid  its  silver  beams  behind  a  dark 
mountain,  whose  eternal  summit  lay  stretched 
along  the  western  horizon. 

Mrs.  Fuller,  too,  kept  anxious  watch.  She  knew 
from  many  of  them  she  had  nothing  to  fear ;  they 
had  often  warmed  themselves  by  her  fire,  had  eat- 


EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY.  183 

en  of  her  bread,  and  in  many  ways  been  partakers 
of  her  hospitality,  and  she  knew  the  Indian  never 
forgets  a  kindness. 

She  gently  hushed  the  feeble  wailings  of  her 
infant,  lest  it  should  awaken  them  to  savage  rage. 
She  almost  resolved  to  take  her  children  and  leave 
the  house  while  that  savage  band  were  weighed 
down  by  sleep  and  intoxication.  But  she  feared 
it  might  exasperate  them  if  they  found  her  gone, 
and  so  she  waited  the  event,  lifting  her  heart  to 
God  in  prayer,  for  he  was  the  refuge  of  that  Chris 
tian  woman,  in  every  hour  of  trial. 

The  sun  came  up  at  length,  and  shed  his  glori 
ous  beams  over  the  face  of  rejoicing  nature.  The 
birds  sang  their  matin  hymns  of  praise,  The  dew 
drops  glittered  upon  the  green  grass  and  tender 
herbage,  and  the  restless  cows  lowed,  impatient 
to  wander  forth  at  their  accustomed  hour.  The 
children  arose,  refreshed  by  their  slumber,  and  as 
they  looked  out  upon  the  dusky  sons  of  the  forest, 
their  hearts  quaked  within  them,  and  stealing 
silently  into  a  corner,  they  awaited  their  fate  with 
pale  faces. 

Dove  Eye  stole  quietly  from  the  rock,  and  kind 
ling  the  almost  extinguished  fire,  hastily  prepared 
their  simple  morning  meal.  She  took  from  a  deer 
skin  knapsack,  which  she  carried  upon  her  back,  a 
neat  white  cloth,  and  repaired  to  the  house  of  Mrs. 
Fuller,  wishing  to  exchange  some  nice  dried  moose 
meat  for  some  new  milk.  Mrs.  Fuller  hastily 
milked,  and  filling  a  large  pail,  Dove  Eye  bore  it 
to  their  place  of  rendezvous,  and  the  co\vs  went 
forth  to  crop  the  dewy  grass. 


184  A    LONG    NIGHT   IN   THE 

She  then  awoke  her  husband,  and  soon  the 
dusky  group  were  partaking  of  their  morning  re 
past,  with  evident  satisfaction,  after  which  they 
made  preparations  to  depart.  They  came,  one 
after  another,  to  get  their  hunting  utensils  and 
their  implements  of  war,  from  Mrs.  Fuller,  telling 
her, 

"  Me  no  forget  white  squaw — me  bring  moose 
meat  for  white  squaw." 

Soon  they  marched  away,  in  Indian  file,  and  as 
their  dusky  forms  disappeared,  one  after  another, 
behind  the  forest  trees,  her  heart  rose  in  thanks 
giving  to  God,  for  her  preservation.  Dove  Eye 
lingered  till  the  rest  of  her  tribe  vanished  from 
sight;  there  was  sadness  in  her  countenance,  and 
sadness  in  her  voice,  as  she  said, 

"  Dove  Eye  see  white  squaw  no  more.  Dove 
Eye  go  toward  the  rising  sun,  but  Dove  Eye  come 
no  more." 

Mrs.  Fuller  pressed  her  hand  affectionately,  and 
commending  her  to  the  Great  Spirit,  she  departed 
to  overtake  her  companions.  The  children 
emerged  from  their  hiding  places,  a  cheerful  fire 
burned  upon  the  hearth,  and  the  weary  mother 
prepared  the  morning  meal  for  herself  and  her 
children,  with  a  grateful  heart. 

When  the  wandering  tribe  returned  again  to 
wards  the  setting  sun,  Dove  Eye  was  not  with 
them — she  had  "  gone  to  the  land  where  her  fath 
ers  had  gone." 

Years  passed  on — years  of  trial,  of  anxiety,  and 
of  change.  The  tall  forest  trees  gave  place  to 
cultivated  fields  and  blooming  orchards. 


EIGHTEENTH    CENTURY.  185 

Roads  traversed  the  vast  country  in  every  direc 
tion.  Numerous  villages  rose  up,  on  the  flourish 
ing  banks  of  the  winding  Kennebec,  and  its  proud 
waters  bore  many  a  whitened  sail  upon  its  surface. 

The  red  men  of  the  forest  have  passed  away, 
like  the  withered  leaves  before  the  autumnal  gale, 
and  the  wild  bear  and  deer  are  now  strangers  in 
their  secluded  haunts. 

The  young  wife  and  mother  passed  from  the 
sober  matron  to  mature  age,  and  there  were  deep 
furrows  upon  her  cheek,  and  the  frosts  of  many 
winters  whitened  her  hair ;  but  when  she  related 
the  events  of  that  night  to  her  grand-children,  or 
great-grand-children,  she  ever  spoke  with  trem 
bling  voice,  and  called  it  the  "  long  fearful  night," 


ON   HEARING   A   BIRD   SING. 


ON  HEARING  A  BIRD  SING-, 

DECEMBER,    1826. 


CEASE,  little  warbler,  cease  thy  lay, 
For  summer,  with  her  sunny  day, 
Far  to  the  south  has  fled  away  ; 

And  autumn's  chilly  finger 
Has  touch'd  the  leaf  on  ev'ry  tree, — 
And  blighted  ev'rythmg  we  see  ; 

Then,  warbler,  do  not  linger. 

Fly  where  groves  of  citron  bloom, 
And  orange  orchards  shed  perfume, 
And  birds  of  ev'ry  varied  plume, 

With  music  charm  thee: 
Fly,  little  warbler,  quickly  fly, 
Far,  far  away  to  southern  sky, 

Where  nought  can  harm  thee. 

For,  oh,  it  is  no  careless  voice — 
That  bids  thee  fly  and  seek  for  joy?, 
And  shun  the  rushing  whirlwind's  noise. 

That  soon  will  pass  before  thee. 
But  one,  whose  bosom  knows  full  well, 
The  heartless  scene,  the  winter  spell, 

Thai  goon  will  hover  o'er  tb.e.o. 


VARIETY. 


VARIETY. 


VARIETY  is  sweet  to  me 
As  many  blossoms  to  the  bee  ; 
And  I  will  roam  from  flower  to  flower, 
Sipping  honey  ev'ry  hour  ; 
I  will  wander  with  the  bee, 
And  drink  thy  sweets,  variety. 

But  if  I  idly  flit  away, 
All  my  sunny  summer  day, 
Dancing  round  from  flow'r  to  flow'r ; 
What  shall  grace  my  winter  bow'r  ? 
No,  I'll  not  wander  with  the  bee, 
So  tempt   me  not,  variety. 

But  I  will  prune  my  myrtle  tree, 
That  in  winter  green  will  be, 
When  other  flow'rs  are  pale  and  dead  : 
Their  color  gone,  their  beauty  fled, 
No,  I'll  not  wander  with  the  bee ; 
So  away,  variety. 

My  myrtle  then  shall  be  my  care, 
That's  green  and  fragrant  all  the  year  : 
I  will  not  spend  the  fleeting  hours 
Flitting  round  more  fragrant  flow'rs. 
I'll  not  wander  with  the  bco, 
So  begone,  variety. 

This  in  youth  should  be  our  caro, 
To  improve  for  future  years  ; 


188  VARIETY. 

For  if  wo  flit  from  toy  to  toy, 
Chasing  the  painted  bubble,  joy, 
No  real  substance  shall  we  find 
To  nourish  or  improve  the  mind. 
Then  I'll  not  wander  with  the  bee 
Since  it  leads  to  misery. 

And  youth's  fair  morn  will  vanish  soon, 
And  the  bright  sun  grow  dim  at  noon  ; 
Trials  will  rise  along  the  way, 
To  cloud  tho  dreary  -winter  day ; 
Then  I'll  not  wander  with  the  bee, 
So  farewell,  variety. 


HENRJETTE   CLINTON. 


HENRIETTE    CLINTON; 

OR, 

K  E  V  E  K  S  E  S     OF     F  O  R  T  U  N 


AT  the  foot  of  the  Alleghany  Mountains  stands 
the  flourishing  village  of  Hollidaysburg.  On  the 
banks  of  the  blue  Juniata,  that  winds  on  till  it 
buries  its  waters  in  the  rolling  Susquehannah, 
stood  the  elegant  mansion  of  Esquire  Clinton,  the 
village  lawyer.  He  had  lost  his  young  wife  many 
years  since,  and  Henriette,  his  only  child,  shared 
largely  in  the  affection  of  her  father.  Her  every 
wish  was  gratified,  and  she  was  educated  in  the 
fashionable  etiquette  of  the  place.  She  was  the 
guiding  star  in  the  fashionable  circle  in  which  she 
moved,  and  a  general  favorite. 

But  there  came  a  change.  The  father  was 
seized  with  sudden  illness,  and  in  a  few  short  hours 
was  no  more.  The  grief-stricken  Henriette  had 
watched  with  an  agonized  heart  the  progress  of 
the  disease,  had  attended  to  his  wants,  and  sup 
plied  his  necessities  with  her  own  hands.  A  skill 
ful  physician  had  done  all  that  medical  aid  could 
do,  but  nothing  could  avail.  The  grim  messenger 


19.0  HENRIETTE    CLINTON'. 

lingered  riot,  and  the  beautiful  Henriette  was  left 
sole  mistress  of  the  splendid  mansion. 

But  Frederic  Clinton  had  made  preparation  for 
that  event,  and  his  lamp  was  trimmed  and  burning 
when  the  Master  came. 

Henriette,  too,  had  given  her  heart  to  God, 
while  the  freshness  of  youth  was  yet  upon  it,  and 
now  he  supported  her  in  her  hour  of  trial.  Her 
father  was  borne  to  the  grave,  with  all  the  spleii- 
dor  of  wealth,  a  long  train  of  sympathizing  friends 
following  in  the  procession,  and  showing  every  at 
tention  to  the  bereaved  orphan,  who  was  the  only 
mourner. 

Henriette  returned  with  an  aching  heart,  to  the 
home  of  her  childhood,  and  seated  herself  in  her 
father's  library,  overwhelmed  with  grief. 

It  was  a  cheerless  autumn  day,  and  nature 
seemed  sympathizing  in  her  sorrow.  The  fitful 
gusts  of  wind  came  sighing  down  the  mountains, 
and  sweeping  over  the  usually  placid  waters  of 
the  Juniata,  tossed  its  waves  into  tumultuous  mo 
tion,  and  drove  it  more  rapidly  on  in  its  serpentine 
course.  The  beautiful  magnolia  that  stood  before 
the  window,  wras  filled  with  its  second  crop  of 
yellow  flowTers,  that  were  faded  and  ready  to  pass 
away,  and  the  surging  blasts  swept  them  uncere 
moniously  from  the  branches,  as  it  came  sighing 
down  the  mountains,  and  sweeping  along  the  val 
ley.  The  sun  had  long  since  hid  himself  behind 
the  summit  of  the  eternal  hills,  that  she  had  loved 
to  watch  with  her  father,  from  that  window,  while 
learning  lessons  from  his  lips,  of  the  grandeur  and 
sublimity  of  God,  who  spake  that  stupendous 


HENRIETTE    CLINTO5T.  191 

chain  of  mountains  into  existence.  And  her 
thought  was  turned  to  that  God,  who  has  prom 
ised  to  be  "  the  father  of  the  fatherless."  To  him 
she  knelt — to  him  she  prayed.  Soothed  and  com 
forted,  she  arose  and  entered  the  parlor.  Sympa 
thizing  domestics  awaited  her  pleasure,  and  obey 
ed  her  commands. 

Proper  measures  were  taken  for  an  investigation 
of  Mr.  Clinton's  affairs,  and  the  estate  was  pro 
nounced  insolvent,  and  all  was  offered  for  sale. 
At  first  Henriefcte  could  scarcely  believe  the  asser 
tion,  but  when  she  became  convinced  of  its  truth, 
she  nerved  her  mind  to  meet  the  trial,  relying 
upon  that  God  "  who  tempers  the  wind  to  the 
shorn  lamb." 

She  immediately  dismissed  her  domestics,  who 
had  been  faithful  so  long  to  the  family,  \vatching 
over  their  young  mistress,  during  her  childhood 
and  early  youth,  and  now  they  felt  grieved  to 
leave  her.  She'gave  each  one  a  present  from  her 
own  treasures,  procured  good  places  for  them,  re 
taining  only  the  dear  old  nurse  in  her  service,  for 
a  few  days,  till  the  auction  had  taken  place. 

Henriette  had  never  been  accustomed  to  labor, 
and  old  Mary  .was  surprised  upon  seeing  her  enter 
the  dining  room,  with  her  glossy  brown  hair  part 
ed  neatly  over  her  high  marble  forehead,  clad  in  a 
simple  gingham,  which  she  had  prepared  for 
a  morning  dress,  with  a  brown  linen  apron,  to 
assist  her  in  making  the  necessary  arrangements 
for  her  removal  and  the  coming  sale. 

The  rooms  were  put  in  the  best  possible  order, 
and  the  luxurious  furniture  arranged  with  great 


192  HENRIETTE    CLINTON. 

care,  that  everything  might  show  to  the  best  ad 
vantage.  She  selected  a  few  choice  volumes  from 
the  library,  and  placed  them  in  a  large  trunk, 
which  was  to  contain  her  own  wardrobe,  and 
which  she  had  decided  upon  keeping,  if  circum 
stances  would  permit. 

This  had  been  her  favorite  room  ;  one  window 
looked  out  upon  the  mountains,  that  lifted  their 
heads  in  majestic  grandeur,  and  seemed  support 
ing  the  very  clouds  upon  their  lofty  summits, 
while  their  jagged  sides  looked  as  though  they 
would  drop  upon  the  valley  below.  But  they 
had  stood  for  ages  the  same,  braving  the  fury  of 
the  wintry  storm  as  its  surging  blasts  swept  over 
them,  or  parched  by  the  burning  rays  of  the  noon 
day  sun,  as  he  poured  his  fierce  scorching  beams 
upon  them.  She  had  looked  upon  them  too  in 
the  twilight  hour,  when  the  coming  darkness 
would  present  strange,  mysterious  shadows,  and 
the  craggy  rocks  would  assume  the  forms  of  men, 
and  fancy  would  conjure  up  a  lawless  band  of 
midnight  plunderers  emerging  from  their  dark 
caves,  upon  the  mountain  side. 

But  now  she  was  looking  out  of  that  window 
perhaps  for  the  last  time,  and  the  unbidden 
tear  would  spring  to  her  eye.  The  books  were 
nicely  dusted,  the  comfortable  stuffed  rocking 
chair  stood  in  its  usual  place  where  her  father 
used  to  love  to  sit  so  well,  and  a  splendid  otto 
man  stood  before  it,  which  was  usually  her  seat. 
Her  elegant  little  chair  covered  with  crimson  vel 
vet,  stood  by  the  window,  where  she  ever  loved 
to  linger  to  look  out  upon  the  mountains,  always 


HEXRIETTE    CLINTON.  193 

finding  some  new   trace  of  beauty,  as  she  gazed 
upon  their  cloud  capped   summits.     But  now  she 
must    linger  no    longer ;  the  rich    covering   was 
placed  exactly  square  upon  the  elegant  little  table, 
and  every  particle  of  dust  was  banished  from  the 
room,  and  there  were  duties  elsewhere  that  de 
manded  her  attention.     As  she  turned  to  leave  the 
room,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  the  portraits  of  her 
parents  that  hung  suspended  on  the  wall  opposite 
her,  in  heavy  gilt  frames.     The  likenesses  were 
very  natural,  and  now  seemed  smiling  upon  her 
with  life-like  affection.     At  this  time  the  man  en 
tered  with  whom  she  had  procured   board,  and 
who  had  kindly  offered  to  assist  in  removing  any 
articles  she    might  wish  to   convey  to  his  house. 
The    dear   resemblances  of   her  idolized   parents 
were  removed  from  the  spot  they  had  occupied  so 
many  years,  to  be  carried  to  a  stranger's  home, 
llenriette  felt  less  regret  at  parting  from  the  place 
now  those  loved  faces  were  removed.     There  were 
many  little  treasures   associated  with  dear  mem 
ories  she  would  gladly  have   taken,   but  a  strict 
sense   of  honor  forbade  her.     She  turned  away, 
locking  the  door,  but  leaving  the  key  in  it,  to  be 
turned  next  by  a  stranger's   hand.     She  drew  up 
her  music  stool,  and  seating  herself  upon  it  touch 
ed  the  keys  of  her  piano  with  a  skillful  hand,  and 
sang  with  a  trembling  voice, 

"  Farewell,  farewell,  is  a  lonely  sound." 

She  closed  the  instrument  as  she  finished  the  piece;, 
saying, 

"  It  is  the  last  time." 
li 


.194  tfENRIETTE    CLINTOS. 

There  was  one  hour  before  the  auction,  and 
already  were  curious  eyes  peering  round  the  prem 
ises.  Every  thing  being  arranged  to  their  minds, 
Henriette  dismissed  the  dear  old  nurse  with  many 
tears  and  a  generous  reward.  She  would  live 
near  by  and  would  see  her  every  day,  and  this  was 
a  source  of  great  comfort  to  both. 

Henriette  now  ran  down  the  beautiful  terraced 
walk,  through  her  father's  garden,  till  she  reached 
a  beautiful  arbor  on  the  brink  of  the  river,  where 
she  had  spent  so  many  happy  hours.  Here  was 
her  guitar,  her  father's  flute,  and  the  book  they 
had  last  read  together.  She  seated  herself  upon 
the  richly  cushioned  seat,  and  looked  upon  the 
winding  waters  that  seemed  mocking  her  sad  heart 
as  they  danced  sparkling  on  beneath  the  mellow 
rays  of  the  autumnal  sun,  its  bosom  ruffled  by  the 
autumnal  breeze.  At  the  foot  of  the  terrace  her 
fairy  skiff  lay  moored,  which  used  to  dance  upon 
the  wave  by  moonlight,  while  she  and  her  father 
made  the  air  resound  with  the  melody  of  their 
music  ;  but  there  was  little  time  to  linger  here. 

She  put  the  little  arbor  in  order,  and  repaired 
next  to  her  conservatory,  filled  with  rich  and  rare 
exotics,  took  a  hasty  glance,  moving  the  choice 
plants  into  the  position  that  best  suited  her  good 
taste,  and  wiping  the  dust  from  its  polished  shelves. 
Her  father's  chair  occupied  its  place  by  his  favor 
ite  window  that  looked  out  upon  the  Juniata 
that  was  indistinctly  seen,  peeping  its  little  spots 
of  blue  through  the  thiek  leaves  of  the  plants 
that  almost  hid  it  from  view.  She  took  a  last 
look,  passing  on  to  the  aviary,  where  a  choice 


11ENRIETTE   CLINTON.  195 

collection  of  birds  filled  the  ear  with  their  melo 
dy.  Old  nurse  had  attended  to  this  department, 
and  she  caressed  her  pets,  and  smoothed  their 
feathers,  and  breathing  a  sad  adieu,  turned  to  take 
a  last  look  at  her  favorite  Sullensifadda,  as  she 
had  named  her  noble  steed.  She  patted  his  neck, 
told  him  coaxingly  he  would  never  again  climb 
the  mountain  pass  with  her  upon  his  back  ;  took 
a  last  look  of  her  father's  splendid  saddle  horse 
of  dapple  grey,  and  his  jet  black  span  of  carriage 
horses,  and  passed  round  through  the  richly  culti 
vated  grounds,  and  gardens  where  every  thing 
that  wealth  could  procure  lay  spread  out  before 
the  eye.  She  took  a  hasty  look,  a  hasty  leave  of 
all  and  felt  that  sense  of  desolation  known  to  al 
most  every  human  heart,  when  called  upon  to 
part  from  dear  familiar  objects.  She  looked  at 
her  elegant  gold  watch,  and  finding  her  time  had 
expired,  returned  to  the  house.  Already  there 
had  many  arrived  who  wished  to  attend  the  auc 
tion.  Henriette  entered  a  small  apartment,  seat 
ed  herself  upon  a  low  stool,  and  wept  as  she  heard 
the  unfeeling  remarks  and  low  jests,  as  the  vulgar 
crowd  pulled  about  the  furniture,  turning  it  from 
side  to  side,  declaring  they  had  no  idea  Esq.  Clin 
ton's  mansion  was  so  meanly  furnished.  But  we 
will  not  dwell  upon  this  painful  scene. 

Mr.  Charles  Norcross  purchased  the  house  with 
all  its  appurtenances.  The  furniture  was  distri 
buted  about  here  and  there  among  the  wealthy 
citizens,  who  wished  to  add  some  article  of  luxury 
to  their  establishment.  And  all  was  gone.  Sold 
for  less  than  half  its  value,  and  poor  Henriette 


196  liENIUETTE    CLINTON. 

had  the  mortification  of  hearing  that  the  debts 
were  not  cancelled.  So  she  disposed  of  her  gold 
watch  and  pencil,  her  father's  watch,  a  box  of 
rich  jewelry,  and  every  available  article  in  her 
possession  to  contribute  her  mite  to  keep  dishonor 
from  resting  upon  her  father's  name.  She  then 
went  forth  penniless  upon  the  world.  But  there 
was  a  light  in  her  eye  and  firmness  in  her  step 
that  told  of  a  "  will  to  do,  a  soul  to  dare."  She 
had  been  educated  in  the  customs  of  the  village, 
and  had  been  an  aristocrat.  Now  she  had  anoth 
er  lesson  to  learn,  a  sad  lesson  speaking  of  the 
depravity  of  the  human  heart,  and  now  she  must 
learn  all  the  cold  heartlessness  of  that  world  that 
had  heretofore  shone  so  brightly  upon  her  path 
way.  She  did  not  once  think  in  her  grief  that 
her  change  in  fortune  would  make  any  change  in 
friendship's  tone.,  but  alas  !  the  society  in  which 
she  had  moved  was  very,  very  exclusive,  and  to 
labor  with  the  hands  was  to  bar  the  door  of  that 
society  forever  against  one. 

Henriette  at  first  did  not  realize  this,  and  when 
she  met  her  former  gay  companions,  was  surprised 
when  they  passed  her  with  an  averted  eye,  or  a 
slight  nod  of  recognition.  Frequently  was  she  call 
ed  upon  to  meet  that  sudden  death  chill  that  falls 
so  often  upon  the  human  heart,  when  the  fond  af 
fections  of  many  years  gush  warmly  up  to  the 
eye  and  lip,  as  we  meet  some  long  cherished 
friend  who  passes  us  by  with  a  cold,  scornful 
glance.  O  this  is  poverty's  bitterest  curse,  and 
this  too  must  be  met.  Those  who  might  have 
removed  many  a  sharp  thorn  from  the  pathway  of 


HEXRIETTE   CLINTON. 

the  lonely  Henriette,  but  added  sharpness  to  their 
point,  and  made  her  feel  and  deeply  feel, 

"  Man's  inhumanity  to  man, 
Makes  countless  thousands  mourn." 

The  poor  girl  felt  there  was  no  time  to  sit  still, 
for  she  was  a  destitute  orphan,  and  she  must  try 
to  help  herself,  and  so  she  repaired  to  Mrs.  Cobb, 
the  most  fashionable  dress  maker  in  the  village, 
to  see  if  she  could  learn  her  trade. 

Matters  were  satisfactorily  arranged,  and  she 
commenced  immediately.  A  willing  hand  and 
active  mind  made  the  task  easier  than  she  had 
anticipated.  It  was  soon  a  matter  of  conversa 
tion  through  all  the  village,  when  it  became 
known  that  the  haughty  Henriette  Clinton  wTas 
going  to  be  a  dress  maker,  and  many  were  the 
remarks  that  were  made  upon  her  everlasting 
gingham  dress,  for  her  nice  sense  of  propriety 
prevented  her  from  wearing  the  rich  articles  of 
apparel  contained  in  her  wardrobe  ;  and  at  pres 
ent  she  could  procure  no  other.  She  formed  the 
resolution  sometimes  of  disposing  of  some  of  her 
costly  garments  to  relieve  her  present  necessity, 
but  they  had  been  selected  by  her  dear  father, 
•find  were  all  that  remained  to  her  as  a  link  of  her 
past  intercourse  with  him,  and  so  she  clung  to 
them  as  dear  remembrances  of  the  past,  the  hap 
py  past. 

She  sat  through  the  long  weary  hours  with  her 
eyes  bent  upon  her  work,  and  made  rapid  profi 
ciency  in  the  art  she  was  acquiring. 

Mr.  Norcross,  who  purchased  the  Clinton  estate, 
was  a  man  of  a  low  sordid  mind  not  at  all  calcu- 
3i 


1.9S  IIENRIETTE    CLINTON. 

lated  to  appreciate  the  elegance  of  his  domicil. 
He  was  a  merchant,  and  had  rapidly  come  into 
possession  of  great  wealth,  and  wishing  to  climb 
a  little  higher  upon  the  ladder  of  aristocracy,  he 
thought  a  purchase  of  the  lawyer's  splendid  estab 
lishment  would  forward  his 'progress.  Therefore, 
selling  his  own  place  at  a  very  high  price,  and 
purchasing  that  at  an  equally  low  one,  did  not 
much  diminish  his  hoarded  gold.  But  after  all 
they  were  not  the  Clintons.  It  was  only  Mr. 
Norcross  the  store-keeper,  and  they  had  many 
steps  to  climb  before  they  could  reach  that  posi 
tion  in  society  they  were  so  desirous  of  attaining. 
They  bowed  to  one,  scraped  to  another,  parties 
were  made,  and  many  means  devised,  all  of  which 
were  accompanied  with  disappointment,  as  the 
least  desired  would  come,  and  those  for  whom  the 
party  was  made  would  just  as  surely  stay  away. 

Mrs.  Norcross  was  a  large  coarse  woman,  with 
red  hair,  light  blue  eyes,  and  freckled  face,  but 
with  a  good  humored  expression  of  countenance. 
Her  two  daughters,  Araminta  and  Clarinda,  were 
not  very  refined  in  their  manners,  owing  to  a  de 
ficiency  in  their  education,  but  were  good  heart 
ed,  cheerful  girls.  Araminta  was  much  pleased, 
with  Henrietta's  horse,  but  did  not  appreciate  the 
name,  and  declared  he  should  be  called  Selim,  for 
she  knew  she  had  read  of  some  great  man  who 
had  a  horse  by  that  name,  and  who  ever  heard  of 
one  named  Sullensifadda,  ugly  name.  She  mount 
ed  him  one  day,  gaily  caparisoned,  but  he  being 
equally  unaccostomed  to  his  new  name  and  rider, 
soon  convinced  her  he  had  a  light  pair  of  heels. 


HENEIETTE    CLINTOTST.  199 

Henriette  sat  busily  at  work  by  the  window, 
when  the  clatter  of  the  well  known  hoofs  sounded 
sipon  her  ear,  and  she  raised  her  eyes  just  in  time 
to  see  her  well  remembered  steed  flying  toward 
the  mountain  pass  with  the  speed  of  lightning, 
while  the  frightened  Araminta  was  clinging  to  his 
mane  to  prevent  falling  to  the  ground,  her  long 
riding  dress  and  veil  were  streaming  behind  her 
their  full  length  in  the  wind,  which  was  blowing 
pretty  briskly,  and  her  small  riding-cap  was  drawn 
a  little  farther  upon  one  side  than  the  rules  of 
gentility  seemed  to  require.  Henriette  pitied  the 
poor  girl,  but  she  could  not  help  smiling  at  her 
ludicrous  appearance.  She  turned  pale  when  she 
saw  the  horse  turn  suddenly  down  a  narrow  path 
that  led  to  the  river,  plunge  into  its  dashing  waves, 
and  swimming  round  a  circuitous  route,  spring 
back  upon  the  shore,  and  setting  his  face  towards 
iiome,  bore  back  the  mortified  girl  all  wet  and 
dripping  through  the  streets  at  too  rapid  a  rate 
for  any  one  to  interfere  with  his  arrangements, 
-arriving  at  home  apparently  well  satisfied  with 
his  performance. 

Months  passed  away,  such  months  as  Henriette 
had  never  known  before.  She  could  have  borrj^ 
her  toil,  her  simple  fare,  and  the  ten  thousand  de 
privations  she  was  subjected  to,  had  this  been  all; 
•but  the  averted  looks  of  her  friends  were  more 
than  all  these.  She  used  to  sit  a  little  while  in 
the  twilight  hour  upon  her  parents'  graves,  and 
recall  their  loved  forms  and  tender  words,  and 
people  her  imagination  with  by-gone  scenes,  and 

riben.  as  she  contrasted  the  present,  her  cherished 
4i 


200  HENRIETTE    CLINTON. 

text  would  come  to  illuminate  her  mind  and  calm 
her  troubled  spirit,  "  all  things  work  together  for 
good  to  them  that  fear  God,"  and  she  was  com 
forted  and  strengthened  to  go  on  her  weary  way, 
for  this  took  in  life  with  all  its  little  incidents,  its 
every  day  trials,  and  she  returned  to  the  active 
duties  of  life,  realizing  that  "  this  is  not  our 
home." 

Ere  the  spring  returned  she  had  accomplished 
her  wish,  and  entered  into  many  families  as  dress 
maker  where  she  used  to  be  admitted  as  an  equal, 
if  not  superior.  She  maintained  her  dignity  of 
deportment,  for  now  she  well  knew  poverty  did 
not  deteriorate  from  worth,  a  lesson  perhaps  she 
too  might  have  been  slow  to  learn  under  some 
circumstances,  but  which  now  had  been  taught 
her  by  stern  necessity,  and  her  rigid  lessons  are 
never  soon  forgotten. 

She  had  taken  the  rich  trimming  from  some  of 
her  plainest  dresses,  and  wore  them  when  she 
could  not  possibly  avoid  it.  She  did  her  work 
with  great  neatness  and  dispatch,  and  was  sup 
plied  with  all  she  could  possibly  do,  so  that  she 
remunerated  the  kind  hearted  woman  who  had 
bearded  her  through  her  apprenticeship,  and  been 
very  attentive  to  her  in  many  ways,  for  she  truly 
pitied  the  poor  orphan. 

In  the  spring  Mr.  Clinton's  vacant  office  was 
again  occupied  by  a  young  lawyer,  who  came  into 
the  village,  from  New  York,  named  Henry  Lor- 
ton,  and  half  the  young  ladies'  heads  were  turned, 
by  the  beauty  and  elegance  of  the  young  north 
erner.  Parties  were  formed,  walks  projected  up 


HENRIETTE    CLINTON.  201 

the  mountains,  moonlight  sails  upon  the  silvery 
bosom  of  the  Juniata,  and  every  means  devised  to 
draw  the  young  lawyer  into  company,  and  love 
with  the  southern  beauties  ;  but  they  declared  his 
heart  was  as  cold  as  the  region  he  came  from. 

All  these  things  Henriette  heard,  as  she  sat  ply 
ing  her  needle,  or  stood  fitting  a  dress  to  the  forms 
of  some  of  her  gay  companions  ;  but  now  her  in 
terests  were  separate  from  theirs,  and  she  toiled 
on,  through  the  weary  day.  There  were  some 
who  appreciated  her  motives,  and  spoke  kindly  to 
the  poor  orphan,  and  the  sweet  consciousness  of 
well  doing  sweetened  her  cup  of  toil. 

Henry  Lorton  was  educated  upon  liberal  New 
England  principles,  and  his  mother  was  a  dress 
maker  before  her  marriage  with  his  father,  and 
besides,  he  had  ever  been  taught  to  respect  the 
industrious  part  of  the  community,  and  his  high 
minded  principles  revolted  from  the  overbearing 
aristocracy  of  the  place,  and  therefore,  he  appear 
ed  reserved  to  those  with  whom  he  associated. 

Henriette  felt  grieved  as  she  visited  her  father's 
grave  ;  there  was  no  monument  erected  at  his 
head,  while  at  her  mother's  stood  an  elegant  pol 
ished  marble  one,  of  great  value,  having  a  female 
bearing  an  infant  in  her  arms,  chiselled  upon  it, 
and  this  one  thought  occupied  her  mind  ;  she 
would  rise  early  and  eat  the  bread  of  carefulness, 
might  she  but  erect  a  monument  to  her  father's 
grave ;  and  often  she  burned  the  midnight  lamp, 
and  rose  before  the  stars  had  faded  from  the  sky, 
to  accomplish  her  holy  purpose. 

A  young  lady,  who  was  married  about  that  time, 
5i 


202  HENRIETTE    CLINTON. 

saw  and  wished  to  purchase  an  elegantly  trimmed 
satin  dress,  and  Henriette  assented,  thinking  the 
value  of  it  would  be  more  sacred  to  her  eyes,  in 
her  father's  monument,  than  elsewhere.  The 
young  lady  paid  her  the  full  value  of  this  and 
several  other  articles  of  clothing,  and  she  soon  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  splendid  monument 
reared  over  her  father's  grave. 

Ellen  Horton  had  ever  met  Henriette  with  a 
cordial  greeting,  and  she  did  not  feel  the  same 
shrinking  when  she  was  requested  to  spend  a  few 
days  at  the  residence  of  the  wealthy  Edward  Hor 
ton  that  she  did  in  going  to  many  other  places, 
and  she  went  with  a  cheerful  heart  to  prepare  the 
splendid  bridal  dress  for  Ellen. 

Next  day,  Charles  Hunter,  the  future  bride 
groom,  arrived  from  Providence,  the  future  home 
of  the  fair  Ellen,  and  the  young  ladies  and  gentle 
men  of  the  place  were  invited  to  spend  the  evening. 

Mr.  Horton  was  formerly  from  Philadelphia, 
and  an  intimate  friend  of  Charles  Hunter's  father, 
who  was  a  sea  captain,  and  being  shipwrecked 
during  one  of  his  voyages,  was  conveyed  in  a 
pitiful  condition  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Horton,  and 
thus  commenced  an  ardent  friendship,  to  be  ended 
only  by  death. 

The  nuptials  of  Charles  and  Ellen  wrere  looked 
forward  to  with  great  interest,  by  both  families. 
Especially,  was  Mrs.  Hnnter  much  pleased,  as  she 
was- an  invalid,  and  had  no  daughter. 

But  evening  came — bright,  beautiful  evening, 
and  with  it  came  bright,  beautiful  eyes — bright, 
beautiful  faces,  and  all  was  gaiety  and  joyousness, 


HENRIETTE    CLINTON.  203 

In  the  brilliantly  illuminated  parlors  of  Mr.  Hor- 
ton.  Hcnrictte,  yielding  to  the  wishes  of  Ellen 
and  her  mother,  and  the  express  commands  of  Mr, 
Horton,  consented  to  join  the  party.  She  entered 
the  room  with  the  dignity  of  a  queen  ;  but  the 
scornful  toss  of  many  a  young  head,  and  the  avert 
ed  gaze  of  many  a  familiar  eye,  brought  the  deep 
blush  of  wounded  feelings  to  her  cheek,  ere  she 
reached  her  seat.  As  she  raised  her  eyes  she  met 
those  of  Henry  Lorton  fixed  upon  her,  with  an 
expression  that  her  woman's  intuitive  sense  easily 
read. 

They  had  frequently  met  before,  but  had  never 
formed  any  acquaintance. 

Each  one  was  winning  a  name.  Henry  Lorton 
had  made  rapid  advancement  in  his  profession,  and 
stood  high  in  the  estimation  of  his  fellow  men,  for 
honesty  and  integrity  of  principle. 

Many  a  match-making  mother  would  gladly 
have  entrapped  him  for  her  daughter,  and  many  a 
daughter,  perchance,  might  have  accepted  his 
hand,  had  it  been  offered,  but  it  was  not.  No  one 
could  elicit  anything  beyond  politeness  from  him. 

He  turned  to  a  dark-eyed  beauty,  who  sat  be? 
side  him,  asking  her  if  she  was  acquainted  with 
Miss  Clinton. 

She  blushed,  stammered, 

"  Why,  no  ;  I  am  not  now — that  is,  I  used  to 
be  when  she  went  into  society,  that  is  before  her 
father's  death — before  she  was  a  dress-maker." 

Henry  turned  away,  disgusted  with  this  indefi 
nite  intelligence.     For  a  moment  a  slight  smile  of 
scorn  rested  upon  his  lip,  and  a  darker  expression 
61 


204  IIENRIETTE    CLINTON. 

shaded  his  countenance ;  but  it  lingered  not.  The 
usual  happy  smile  returned  again,  and  holy  chari 
ty  came  back  to  his  heart. 

The  evening  ^passed  sadly  to  Henriette.  She 
was  with  her  dear  schoolmates — the  friends  of  her 
early  days,  and  her  heart  yearned  for  the  dear 
familiar  tones  that  then  fell  upon  her  ear,  and  in 
spite  of  her  every  effort,  the  tear  trickled  down 
her  cheek.  She  turned  to  the  window,  and  looked 
out  upon  the  blue  waters  and  the  grey  sides  of  the 
lofty  mountain,  that  seemed  looking  down  upon 
her  in  sympathy,  like  the  Mighty  Power  that  cre 
ated  it. 

She  was  roused  from  her  reverie  by  the  voice 
of  Ellen,  who  presented  Mr.  Lorton,  he  having 
earnestly  solicited  an  introduction.  They  con 
versed  pleasantly  upon  the  beauties  of  the  sur 
rounding  scenery,  and  before  the  party  broke  up 
lie  requested  permission  to  visit  her  at  her  board 
ing  house,  the  next  evening.  . 

There  were  some  sly  glances,  but  it  was  the  in 
dependent  Henry  Lorton,  and  little  was  said. 

The  next  evening  he  visited  Henriette,  offered 
her  his  heart  and  hand,  and  was  accepted.  They 
appointed  an  early  day  for  the  wedding.  Henry 
adding, 

"  We  will  give  the  people  an  agreeable  sur 
prise." 

She  finished  Ellen's  work.  The  happy  pair 
were  united,  and  started  for  Providence.  Henri 
ette  declined  taking  any  more  work,  as  she  affirm 
ed  she  must  take  a  few  stitches  in  her  own  ward 
robe. 


HENRIETTE    CLINTON.  205 

Great  was  the  consternation  when  the  banns  of 
marriage  between  Henry  Lorton  and  Henriette 
Clinton  were  published,  the  Sabbath  preceding 
their  wedding.  Many  a  deep  flush  darted  over  the 
youthful  cheek,  and  many  a  head  was  tossed  scorn 
fully,  and  a  sea  of  eyes  were  turned  towards  the 
humble  seat  Henriette  usually  occupied. 

Arrayed  in  a  simple  robe  of  India  muslin,  Hen 
ry  led  the  blushing  Henriette  to  the  altar  of  Hy 
men.  They  were  acquainted  with  each  other's 
characters,  in  the  abstract. 

After  a  pleasant  tour  north,  they  returned  again 
to  the  village,  and  Henriette  was  surprised  when 
they  arrived  there,  to  find  the  carriage  stop  at  the 
home  of  her  childhood. 

Mr.  Norcross,  failing  from  his  former  premises, 
to  reach  the  station  he  wished  in  society,  was 
about  returning  to  Philadelphia,  and  Henry  Lor 
ton,  who  in  reality  was  a  very  wealthy  man,  had 
purchased  it,  unbeknown  to  any  one. 

The  dear  familiar  faces  of  her  parents  were 
again  hung  in  the  old  familiar  places,  upon  the 
library  walls,  beaming  upon  her  with  looks  of  fond 
affection,  and  shedding  the  sweet  smile  of  earlier 
days  upon  her.  The  books  were  neatly  arranged 
on  the  polished  shelves,  and  as  she  again  resumed 
her  accustomed  seat  by  the  wnndow,  and  looked 
out  upon  the  summit  of  the  lofty  mountains,  they 
seemed  like  old  familiar  friends,  welcoming  her 
return,  and  assumed  the  strange,  mysterious 
shapes,  that  so  attracted  her  childish  gaze;  and 
the  trees  that  stood  nodding  in  the  pure  winds  of 
heaven,  seemed  beckoning  her  to  their  cooling 


206  IIENRIETTE    CLINTON. 

shades,  and  she  felt  that  the  sunlight  of  her  early 
home  was  again  shedding  its  glad  beams  around 
her,  and  enjoyed  that  subdued  happiness,  that 
only  can  be  learned  by  an  acquaintunce  with  sor 
row. 

Often  as  she  thus  sat  in  the  pensive  twilight 
hour,  listening  to  the  murmur  of  the  evening 
breeze,  the  voices  of  her  dear  parents  would  seem 
stealing  upon  her  ear  in  well  remembered  tones, 
whispering  of  happiness  and  heaven  ;  and  she  felt 
a  sweet  and  holy  calm  steal  over  her  spirits,  and 
felt  that  "angels  indeed  ministered"  unto  her. 

Henry  invited  her  to  ride  with  him,  and  her 
beautiful  Sullensifadda  stood  pawing  at  the  door, 
richly  caparisoned,  while  the  groom  held  her 
lather's  dapple  grey  by  the  bridle  for  Henry.  As 
they  galloped  slowly  up  the  mountain  pass,  the 
monuments  of  her  dear  parents  glittering  in  the 
sun  admonished  her  that  connubial  bliss  cannot 
shield  from  death,  for  her  mother  had  fallen  a  vic 
tim  when  she  was  a  young  and  happy  bride,  and 
her  young  heart  had  just  felt  the  davvnings  of  a 
mother's  love.  She  raised  her  thoughts  to  God 
in  fervent  supplication,  that  He  still  would  be  the 
Father  of  the  fatherless. 

It  was  painful  to  Henriette  to  witness  the  cring 
ing  servility  of  many  who  formerly  treated  her 
with  contempt ;  but  she  had  learned  many  useful 
lessons  in  poverty,  that  affluence  never  would  have 
taught  her,  and  she  ever  endeavored  to  throw  the 
sweet  garb  of  charity  over  the  frailties  of  her  fel 
low  men,  and  especially  did  the  destitute  orphan 
ever  find  sympathy  and  assistance  from  her  gener- 


HENEIETTE    CLINTON.  207 

ous  aid.  Fleeting  years  have  borne  away  many 
of  the  actors  in  this  little  drama,  and  the  grass 
grows  green  upon  their  graves.  Other  eyes  have 
learned  to  look  upon  the  mountains,  and  trace 
ideal  imagery  upon  their  shadowy  sides.  Little 
feet  imprint  the  terraced  walk  to  the  winding 
banks  of  the  blue  Juniata,  and  watch  the  bubbles 
that  float  upon  the  stream.  No  change  had  passed 
upon  the  silver  bosom  of  the  waters. 

Henriette  is  happy  in  the  dear  old  home.  Her 
old  nurse  is  the  nurse  of  her  children.  A  manly 
form  is  by  her  side ;  tender  words  are  spoken  in  a 
deep-toned  voice ;  but  it  is  the  husband  of  her 
vouth  instead  of  the  father  of  her  childhood. 

•/ 

Happy  in  the  affections  of  her  husband  and  chil 
dren,  and  in  the  faithful  performance  of  those 
sweet  duties  that  devolve  upon  her  as  a  wife  and 
mother,  Henriette  spends  her  useful  life  in  the  ex 
ercise  of  those  virtues  she  only  learned  from  re 
verses  in  fortune.  Henry  too  is  happy.  Disgust 
ed  with  flattering  attentions  paid  to  wealth,  he 
had  won  him  a  name  and  a  bride,  while  his  cir 
cumstances  were  unknown.  He  had  watched 
unobserved  the  patient  endurance  and  unwavering 
industry  of  Henriette  Clinton,  and  resolved  they 
should  not  go  unrewarded. 

The  smile  of  heaven  rests  upon  the  happy 
household,  arid  it  is  invoked  by  the  voice  of  ardent 
prayer,  and  the  family  kneel  together  around  the 
family  altar,  and  the  rich,  deep-toned  voice  of 
Henry  offers  up  the  morning  and  evening  sacri 
fice,  rendering  praise  and  thanksgiving  to  the 
giver  of  every  good  and  perfect  gift. 


THE    CHILD. 


THE    CHILD. 


LAUGHING  child  of  the  noble  brow, 

Whither,  say,  whither  comest  thou  ? 

I've  been  wandering  long  in  sunlit  bow'rs, 

Chasing  butterflies  and  flow'rs  ; 

And  this  bright  garland  round  my  hair, 

Is  one  that  I've  been  twining  there. 

Happy  child  of  the  garland  gay, 

Whither  wanderest  thou  to  play  1 

I've  been  floating  bubbles  on  silver  streams : 

Printing  the  sand  with  golden  dreams  ; 

I've  wandered  widely  all  the  day, 

And  feel  much  wearied  with  my  play. 

Gentle  child  of  the  languid  brow, 
What  is  this  comes  o'er  thee  now  ? 
My  wearied  limbs  are  filled  with  pain, 
A  scorching  fever  burns  my  brain ; 
Hope  dances  not  before  my  eyes, 
But  only  points  beyond  the  skies. 

Wasted  child  of  the  marble  brow, 
Mysterious  death  steals  o'er  thce  now. 
How  pale  and  ghastly  is  thy  cheek, 
Thy  quiv'ring  lips  refuse  to  speak; 
Fluttering  and  pausing  comes  thy  breath  : — 
It  ceases  now,  thou  'rt  cold  in  death. 

There  hangs  the  wreath  which  yesterday, 
Like  thee,  was  blooming  bright  and  gay; 
Emblem  still,  its  leaves  are  dead, 


THE    CHILD.  209 

Their  colors  gone,  their  beauty  fled  ; 
But  withered  roses  shed  .pin-fa m  •, 
That  live  beyond  the  mould'ring  tomb. 

Happy  child  of  the  angel  brow, 
Brighter  wreaths  entwine  thee  now  ; 
Thy  paths  are  spread  thro'  fairer  bow'rs, 
Adorned  with  amaranthine  flow'rs, 
And  ever  happy  thou  wilt  bo, 
Thro'  a  blest  eternity. 

But  I  must  bid  thee  farewell  new, 
Beautiful  child  of  the  death  cold  brow. 


LIJ5TES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  ELLEN  A —  B- 


COULD  infant  grace  and  beauty's  bloom 

Turn  fate's  decrees  aside, 
Death  had  not  borne  her  to  the  tomb, — 

Thy  Eilea  had  not  died- 

But  God,  in  mercy,  from  his  throne 
Looks  down,  on  earth  below, 

And  plucks  from  thence,  to  be  his  own, 
The  fairest  flowers  that  grow. 

What  once  was  clay,  suffering,  distress'd, 

Subject  to  pain  and  ire, — 
A  happy  spirit,  with  the  bless'd, 

Now  tunes  a  seraph's  lyre. 

One  little  lock  of  silken  hair 

Is  all  that's  to  thec  given  ;  — 
The  rest  lies  buried  deep  in  earth, — 

The  soul  witk  God  in  heaven. 

Ths  night  winds  sigh  around  her  grave. 
The  night  dews  there  descend  ; 

And  there  the  tears  of  anguish  lave 
Thy  pallid  cheeks,  my  friend. 

But,  oh  !  forbear,  nor  let  thy  tears, 
Drop  on  this  mould'ring  sod  ; — 

Reflect,  'tis  dust  that  slumbers  here, 
The  spirit's  with  its  God- 


LINES.  211 

For  ere  her  fragile  life  had  closed, 

What  blissful  hopes  were  given  ; — 
Those  parted  lips  and  beaming  eyes 

Spake  less  of  earth  than  heaven, 

And  soon  thy  dream  of  life  will  close, — 

Its  hopes  and  joys  be  o'er  ; 
In  death's  cold  arms  thy  limbs  repose, — 

Thy  soul  to  glory  soar. 

And  then,  perhaps,  this  cherub  form, 

From  sin  so  soon  set  free, 
May,  with  a  daughter's  greeting  warm, 

Be  first  to  welcome  thee. 

Perhaps,  the  joys  on  earth  denied, 

In  full  fruition  given, 
May  more  abundant  bo  supplied, 

For  rip'ning  thus,  in  heaven. 

Perhaps,  'mid  splendor  spread  around, 

Which  thou  shalt  see,  and  hear, 
Mother,  may  be  the  sweetest  sound 

That  strikes  thy  ravished  ear. 

Then  do  not  mourn  those  early  called 

To  yonder  blissful  sky, — 
They  drink  full  draughts  of  living  bliss, 

From  founts  that  never  dry. 


ORDER    OP   NATURE. 


THE  ORDER  OF  NATURE. 


THE  strictest  harmony  and  order  pervade  na 
ture  in  all  her  works.  She  is  governed  by  laws 
and  regulations  which  the  nicest  art  may  attempt 
in  vain  to  imitate.  If  we  contemplate  the  azure 
sky,  with  all  its  glittering  host  of  golden  stars, 
and  watch  them  as  they  run  their  nightly  course 
through  the  boundless  fields  of  ether,  we  shall 
readily  perceive  they  are  led  by  a  systematic 
hand. 

The  sun,  as  he  unlocks  the  rosy  gates  of  the 
east,  and  comes  forth  to  run  his  glad  journey 
across  the  sky,  diffusing  light  and  warmth  upon 
the  vegetable  world  beneath,  moves  with  the  ut 
most  regularity,  giving  to  each  succeeding  year, 
"  the  seasons  and  their  changes." 

The  gentle  moon,  as  she  sheds  her  borrowed 
light  from  the  blue  chambers  of  the  sky,  throwing 
her  silver  mantle  overnight's  sable  form,  performs 
her  varied  evolutions  without  "  variableness  or 
shadow  of  turning."  Every  planet  and  every  star 
has  its  fixed  place  assigned  it,  and  even  the  fiery 
comet  has  its  appointed  orbit,  and  the  man  of 


OitDElt   OF   NATURE.  213 

science  can  tell  the  exact  time  of  its  appearance, 
and  the  course  it  will  run,  and  now  it  is  account 
ed  for  by  the  laws  of  nature,  rather  than  regarded 
as  a  fearful  herald  of  war  or  devastation  ;  and 
even  the  meteor  flash,  that  glares  for  a  moment  and 
then  disappears  forever,  is  awakened  into  action 
by  the  density  of  the  atmosphere,  and  regulated 
by  the  same  common  laws. 

The  portentous  thunder  clouds  that  emit  the 
vivid  lightning's  flash,  and  the  deep-toned  thunder 
reverberating  through  the  sky,  speak  of  the  sub 
limity  of  their  Author,  and  perform  their  destined 
missions  of  purifying  the  air  and  increasing  the 
health  of  man. 

The  sea,  the  deep  blue  sea,  too,  has  its  bounds 
that  it  cannot  pass.  Its  tides  may  ebb  and  flow, 
its  bounding  waves  make  music  on  their  winding 
shore,  or  heave  in  their  giant  strength,  and  dash 
their  foam  and  spray  before  the  raging  tempest, 
but  they  are  curbed  by  that  Eternal  fiat,  which 
says,  "  So  far  shalt  thou  go  and  no  farther,"  or 
hushed  by  the  same  voice  saying,  "  Peace,  be 
still !" 

Rivers  run  in  their  destined  courses,  and  pay 
constant  tribute  to  old  ocean,  and  even  the  spark 
ling  brook  that  bubbles  over  its  pebbly  bottom, 
dances  not  in  vain,  for  the  grass  upon  its  margin 
assumes  a  deeper  green  and  marks  the  threading 
of  its  silver  current. 

The  gentle  dew  that  distils  upon  the  tender 
herbage  in  the  deep  Silence  of  midnight,  or  the 
mist  that  rises  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  are 
not  without  design.  The  mountain  rising  in  its 


214  ORDER   OP   NATURE. 

magnificence,  the  gently  sloping  hill  and  verdant 
vale,  are  so  arranged  as  to  fill  the  mind  of  the  be 
holder  with  satisfaction,  while  the  eye  gazes  upon 
the  perfect  harmony  that  pervades  great  nature's 
works. 

Every  thing  that  is  beautiful,  every  thing  that 
is  sublime,  is  depicted  in  the  order  and  perfection 
of  the  natural  world,  where  each  has  its  appropri 
ate  sphere  and  fulfils  its  appropriate  destiny. 

This  is  a  theme  upon  which  the  most  powerful 
mind  may  expand  itself,  stretching  from  thought 
to  thought,  and  from  object  to  object,  without 
grasping  half  the  amazing  whole.  When  we  con 
template  the  forest  standing  in  silent  grandeur, 
the  tree,  the  shrub,  the  flower  in  all  its  beautiful 
varieties,  the  rock,  the  precipice,  the  foaming 
cataract  that  has  thundered  on  for  ages  with  the 
same  deafening  roar,  and  all  the  ten  thousand  varied 
objects  of  inanimate  creation,  and  observe  the  nice 
regulations  in  which  they  are  placed,  we  can  but 
remark  with  reverential  awe,  "  In  wisdom  hast 
thou  made  them  all." 

If  we  find  beauty  thus  depicted  in  the  inani 
mate,  how  much  greater  will  be  our  admiration 
in  the  contemplation  of  animate  creation  ?  If  we 
descend  into  the  depths  of  the  ocean  we  shall 
find  it  teeming  with  life,  from  the  sponge  that 
clings  to  the  rock,  to  the  mighty  leviathan  that 
sports  amid  the  bounding  billows. 

Or  search  we  the  air,  we  find  it  peopled  with 
myriads  of  floating  insects,  on  silken  wings,  each 
moving  in  its  own  little  sphere,  and  then  passing 
away.  The  spotted  butterfly,  that  flits  through 


ORDER   OF  NATURE. 

the  air,  an  fairy  wing,  or  rests  its  downy  pinions 
on  the  bosom  of  the  fragrant  rose  ;  the  bird  that 
carols  on  the  spray,  or  warbles  sweetly  through 
the  air ;  the  mountain  bee,  that  comes  humming 
round  the  summer  flower,  sipping  its  store  of 
sweets,  and  even  the  drowsy  hum  of  the  summer- 
fly,  as  it  floats  in  mazy  circles,  are  all  connecting 
links  in  nature's  chain. 

But  where  shall  we  stop  ?  the  spider,  the  crick 
et,  the  beetle,  the  glow-worm,  with  his  feeble 
lamp,  the  firefly  that  flies  twinkling  through  the 
air  all  the  "midsummer  night,"  and  every  beast 
that  roams  the  field,  whether  wild  or  tame,  all— 
all  have  their  proper  sphere,  and  are  in  proper  or 
der. 

But  we  have  still  to  contemplate  the  most  beau 
tiful  piece  of  mechanism,  of  nature's  plastic  hand, 
in  the  formation  of  man,  for  whose  convenience 
and  use,  all  things  else  seem  created.  A  careless 
observer  looks  upon  man,  and  sees  in  the  general 
outline  a  beautiful  piece  of  mechanism,  moving 
in  grace  and  dignity,  and  standing  in  an  exalted 
position  upon  the  earth.  He,  too,  has  his  place 
assigned  him,  by  the  order  of  nature,  and  moves  in 
the  highest  sphere  of  earthly  being.  By  the  use 
ful  and  interesting  study  of  physiology,  we  are 
enabled  to  define  the  construction  of  his  system, 
to  delineate  the  muscles,  nerves,  veins  and  fibres, 
and  the  complicated  mass  that  forms  the  man, 
with  all  their  separate  dependencies  upon  each 
other.  But  the  mind,  the  great  moving  spring  of 
action  that  gives  motion  to  the  whole,  who  can 
analyze  or  delineate  ?  That  will  live  forever, 


216  ORDER   OF    NATURE. 

when  the  stillness  of  death  rests  upon  the  pulses. 
That  is  the  great  connecting  link  between  time 
and  eternity,  and  doomed,  by  the  order  of  nature, 
to  live  forever,  and  the  boundless  ages  of  eternity 
alone  can  fully  develop  its  faculties,  or  define  its 
station. 

And  too,  there  is  another  upon  earth,  whose 
presence  is  often  felt,  but  is  never  seen.  The -pale 
horse  and  his  rider  leave  unmistakable  evidences 
of  their  sojourn  with  the  generations  of  men, 
They  pass  on,  breathing  upon  them  a  chilling 
breath,  and  they  are  seen  no  more.  They  go  forth, 
conquering  and  to  conquer,  and  the  king,  and  the 
beggar,  fall  alike,  before  their  ruthless  sway. 

But,  there  is  yet  the  great  unchanging  God,  for 
whose  honor  and  glory  all  things  are  and  were 
created,  who  "  spake  and  it  was  done,"  and  who 
has  taught  us  by  revelation,  that  the  heavens  shall 
be  rolled  together  as  a  scroll,  and  the  spirit  alone 
remain  of  man. 


THE   SEASONS. 


THE    SEASONS. 


SWIFT  rolls  the  fast  revolving  year, 
As  months  and  seasons  disappear ; 
'  And  scarce  we  greet  the  vernal  Spring, 
Ere  Summer  spreads  her  sultry  wing ; 
And  she  retires  with  hasty  pace 
To  give  to  sober  Autumn  place ; 
Who  scatters  fruits  and  flowers  around, 
And  then  to  Winter  leaves  the  ground ; 
With  frost  and  snow  and  tempests  drear, 
He  closes  each  succeeding  year. 
But  though  so  swift  they  pass  from  view, 
Each  has  its  portioned  work  to  do. 
Spring  must  unbind  the  icy  chains, 
And  send  the  streamlet  o'er  the  plains; 
Call  the  feather'd  songsters  home, 
That  far  in  southern  climates  roam  : 
Must  bid  the  springing  grass  appear, 
And  daisies  crown  the  bright  parterre; 
Gently  distil  her  silent  show'rs, 
And  propagate  her  budding  flow'rs  ; 
Thus  gathering  up  her  treasures  fair, 
A  gift  for  Summer,  rich  and  rare. 

She  takes  the  garland  bright  and  gay, 
Fresh  from  the  blooming  lap  of  May : 
Unfolds  the  casings  from  the  flow'rs, 
And  flings  them  o'er  her  sylvan  bow'rs  ; 
Brings  all  their  hidden  tints  to  view, 
Gives  to  their  leaves  a  deeper  hue  i 
Sends  forth  the  bee  and  butterfly, 
1J 


218  THE   SEASONS- 

On  downy  pinions  soaring  high, 
Or  sporting  gay  from  flow'r  to  flow'r,. 
Through  the  short  lived  Summer  hour- 
She  brings,  on  every  passing  breeze, 
Some  fragrant  odor  from  the  trees  ; 
Spreads  out  rich  beauties  to  the  eye, 
And  softly  breathes  her  gentlest  sigh, 
That  wakes  the  ripple  on  the  stream, — 
That  dances  in  the  sun's  bright  beam. 
But  summer  beauties  vanish  soon, — 
As  shadows  dim  the  sun  at  noon  ; 
And  Autumn  comes  with  aspect  mild, 
Meditation's  favorite  elild. 

She  takes  the  gift  from  Summer  fair, — 
Unbraids  the  tresses  of  her  hair, 
Mellows  her  fruits,  scatters  her  flow'rs, 
And  blights  the  leaves  upon  her  bow'rs, 
Then,  breathes  a  mournful  sigh  around, 
And  whirls  them,  wither'd,  o'er  the  ground. 

Then  Winter  comes,  with  tempest  wild, 
Nature's  boisterous,  willful  child, 
To  bind  the  streams  in  icy  chains, — 
Drive  sleet  and  snow  across  the  plains  ; 
And  howling  through  the  wintry  sky, 
The  drifting  wihds  shriek  loud  and  high. 

Th'us  Winter  closes  every  year, 

With  snow,  and  ice,  and  tempest  drear. 

So  human  life  is  but  a  span, — 

A  title,  portion'd  out  to  man ; 

A  tale,  a  song,  a  fev'rish  dream, — 

A  bubble  floating  on  a  stream, 

A  tear,  a  sigh,  a  passing  breath, — 

A  meteor,  swallow'd  up  in  death. 

But  though  so  brief  the  space  we  view,. 

Each  has  its  portion'd  work  to  do  : 


THE   SEASONS.  219 

Youth  must  unbind  and  bud  the  flow'rs, 
To  bloom  o'er  monhood's  sylvan  bow'rs; 
He  must  propel  the  early  shoot, 
And  ripen  it  to  golden  fruit, 
And  weave  a  chaplet,  rich  and  rare, 
For  age  to  twine  around  his  hair, — 
As  Faith  looks  up,  with  trusting  eye, 
To  brighter  worlds  beyond  the  sky. 


DEDICATION   IN   AN   ALBUM, 


DEDICATION  IN  AN  ALBUM. 


PURE,  unsullied  pages  lay  before  me.  How 
chaste  should  be  the  thought,  how  refined  the  sen 
timent  here  inscribed.  May  this  book  be  dedica 
ted  to  Religion,  Morality  and  Virtue,  and  a  deep 
toned  piety  pervade  the  thoughts  and  emotions 
here  portrayed,  which  shall  find  a  deep  response 
in  your  own  heart.  Like  these  spotless  pages,  the 
mind  of  youth  lays  unoccupied,  spread  out  for  the 
reception  of  the  seed  committed  to  its  trust.  May 
it  be  yours  to  propagate  high  and  holy  principles, 
that  shall  be  watered  by  the  dews  of  divine 
grace,  ripened  by  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  and 
bring  forth  fruit  to  eternal  life. 

As  passing  years  bear  away  the  glad  season  of 
youth,  and  usher  in  a  more  mature  period,  may 
the  traces  upon  these  pages  bring  back  pleasant 
recollections  of  dear  friends,  some,  perchance,  who 
may  have  passed  away  with  passing  years,  and 
the  hand  that  now  writes  may  be  mouldering  in 
the  dust ;  for  disguise  as  we  may,  "  it  is  appointed 
to  all  men  once  to  die."  Those  who  live  well,  live 
in  preparation  for  death. 


DEDICATION   IN   AN  ALBUM.  221 

When  in  future  years  your  eye  glances  upon 
this  page,  my  prayer  for  your  enduring  happiness 
will  meet  it.  May  flowers  bloom  beside  your 
pathway,  that  never  fade. 


Sweet  flowers  beside  thy  pathway 
Are  blooming,  bright  and  gay, 

Fann'd  gently  by  the  zephyr's  wing, — 
Kiss'd  by  the  sun's  warm  ray. 

But  soon  they  fold  their  wither'd  leaves, 

And  fade  away  and  die  ; 
But  still  they  shed  a  sweet  perfume, 

Where  fallen  low  they  lie. 

But  there  are  flowers,  perennial  flowers, 
That  bloom  within  the  mind  : 

Shedding  a  fragrance  o'er  the  life, 
Leaving  perfume  behind. 

Henry,  may  these  adorn  your  mind, 

Religion,  Virtue,  Truth ; 
And  thus  diffuse  their  odor  sweet, 

O'er  the  glad  days  of  youth. 

They  shall  not  fade,  but  brighter  bloom, 

As  years  are  flitting  by ; — 
Cast  a  sweet  fragrance  round  the  tomb, 

And  bloom  in  worlds  on  high. 

3J 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  TO  MRS.  S— — ,  ON  THE  DEATH  OP  HER  INFANT. 

THY  anxious  watchings  now  are  past, 

The  summons  has  been  given, 
Thy  gentle  one  has  breath' d  her  last, 

And  gone  from  earth  to  heaven. 

Yet  do  not  mourn  that  she  from  earth 

Thus  early  passed  away  ; 
A  pitying  Saviour  call'd  her  hence, 

To  realms  of  endless  day. 

And  she  is  free  from  earth-born  cares, 

Which  we  must  still  endure  ; 
Her  little  dream  of  life  is  o'er, 

Her  crown  of  glory  sure. 

Though  icy  death,  like  winter's  shroud, 

Surrounds  the  mould'ring  tomb, 
Upon  the  resurrection  morn 

Eternal  spring  shall  bloom. 

Mother  of  angels,  softly  tread, 

Perchance  to  thee  'tis  given, 
To  hold  communings  with  the  dead, 

Who  live  and  reign  in  heaven. 

And  as  thy  treasures  there  are  laid, 

There  thy  warm  hopes  will  rise  ; 
Thou  hast  an  added  golden  link 

To  draw  thee  to  the  skiej. 


UNES  223 


"Thy  mission  is  a  holy  one  : 
Thy  honor'd  husband  stands 

A  watchman  upon  Zion's  walls, 
Its  standard  in  his  hands. 

'Tis  thine  to  aid  the  glorious  work, 
Thy  ransora'd  soul  may  tell 

The  wonders  of  a  Saviour's  love, 
Who  "doeth  all  things  well." 

Tress  onward  in  thy  heav'nly  task, 
And  drink  in  full  supplies 

iFrom  free  Salvation's  living  springs, 
That  ia  the  gospel  rise. 


speed  thee,  sister,  on  thy  way  ; 
May  many  souls  be  giv'n 
f  n  answer  to  thy  fervent  prayers, 
To  form  thy  crown  in  heav'n. 

4J 


LINES. 


LINES, 

TO  MRS.   S ,   ON  THE   DEATH   OF   HER   SON,    WHO  DIEI> 

MARCH,  1854. 


SMOOTH  gently  back  the  silken  hair, 
From  off  the  death-damp  brow  ; 

Life's  feeble  struggles  all  are  o'er, — 
Free  is  that  spirit  now. 

Mother,  no  more  those  anxious  eyes 

Will  seek  thy  loving  face  ; 
That  little,  pulseless,  marble  form, 

Heeds  not  thy  fond  embrace. 

Fold  the  hands  lightly  on  his  breast, 

And  close  his  weary  eyes, 
Then  gently  seek  the  place  of  rest, 

Where  his  sweet  sister  lies. 

And  place  their  coffins  side  by  side. 

Within  the  narrow  tomb. 
Sweetly,  the  gentle  Saviour  said. 

"  To  me,  let  children  come." 

Then  bring  pure  buds  of  snowy  white, 
And  strew  them  by  their  side, 

Meet  emblems,  these,  of  their  frail  lives,- 
That  in  the  blooming — died. 


LINES.  225 


They  lov'd  each  other  while  on  earth, 

And  now  a  purer  love 
Than  earth  can  give,  shall  elevate 

Their  intercourse  above. 

Three  cherubs  now,  before  the  throne, 

Join  in  the  anthem  sweet ; 
Perchance,  itlack'd  thy  Linnae's  voice, 

To  make  that  song  complete. 

Thou  hast  a  trio  angel  band, 

In  heaven's  high  court  above  ; — 

There  Freddie,  Lizzie,  Linnae  stand, 
Before  a  God  of  love. 

Thou  soon  must  join  that  angel  band, 

For  earthly  must  decay; 
Thy  children  from  the  spirit  land, 

Seem  beck'ning  thee  away. 

And  now  a  threefold  golden  cord, 

Has  unto  thee  been  given, 
Gently  to  draw  thy  trusting  heart 

Away  foom  earth  to  heaven. 

And  though  mysterious  are  God's  ways- 

His  promises  are  sure  ; 
Earth  no  affliction  has  so  deep, 

"That  heaven  cannot  cure." 

And  though  so  dark  appears  the  cloud — 

Its  silver  lining,  see  ; 
The  Sun  of  Righteousness  there  sheds 

His  healing  beams  for  thee. 

Thou  hast  one  Jewell' d  casket  yet — 

Thy  Eddie  still  remains  ; 
O,may  a  dying  Saviour's  blood 

Cleanse  all  his  guilty  stains. 
5J 


226  LINES. 

That  he  may  bo  prepared  to  go, 
When  Christ  shall  bid  him  come, 

And  join  that  glittering,  angel  band, 
In  their  eternal  home. 

Then  when  the  last  loud  trump  shall  sound, 
And  wake  the  sleeping  dead  ; 

Thy  family  shall  all  be  found, 
With  Christ,  their  Living  Head. 


• 

FIRST  AND  LAST  VOYAGE  OF  THE  ATLANTIC. 


THE  FIRST  AND  LAST  VOYAGE  OF  THE 
ATLANTIC. 


IT  was  a  delightful  afternoon  in  midsummer, 
when  I  passed  through  New  York,  that  great 
thoroughfare  of  human  life,  to  pursue  my  passage 
towards  my  own  New  England  home,  with  a 
heart  filled  with  those  inexpressible  emotions  that 
crowd  upon  us,  when,  after  a  long  absence  we 
anticipate  a  return  to  the  bosom  of  a  loved  fam- 
ily. 

Nature  seemed  tuned  to  sweet  harmonies,  and 
echoing  the  happiness  that  filled  the  heart,  pro 
duced  no  discordant  note.  Gentle  breezes  fanned 
the  cheek,  and  bore  sweet  perfume  from  the  wav 
ing  branches  of  the  trees  as  they  gently  swung 
before  it,  and  their  trembling  leaves  fluttered  be 
fore  the  passing  breath  of  the  summer  wind  ;  for 
summer  was  brightly  clad  in  all  her  robes  of 
glory. 

Birds    carolled  in  wild    melody  their  hymns  of 

praise,  and  lifted  their  glad  voices  to  Him  "  who 

tipped  their  glittering  wings  with  gold,  and  tune4 

their  voice  to  praise."     Flowers  were  blooming 

6J 


228  FIRST   AND    LAST   VOYAGE 

in  all  their  rich  varieties,  and  the  splendid  boquet 
that  had  been  presented  me  from  the  lady  with 
whom  I  had  been  boarding  several  weeks,  bespoke 
the  handy  work  of  its  Creator,  and  involuntarily  ' 
raised  the  thoughts  to  that  land,  where  the  flow 
ers  fade  not,  where  change  and  decay  come  not. 

Our  journey  led  us  by  the  quiet  Cemetery  of 
Greenwood,  that  vast  receptacle  of  the  city  dead. 
As  we  mused  upon  its  peaceful  rest,  its  quiet 
shades,  the  transparency  of  the  waters,  that  sleep 
in  the  bosom  of  the  sylvan  lake,  and  then  glanced 
upon  the  great  thoroughfare,  teeming  with  life  in 
all  its  varied  and  changeful  positions,  and  reflect 
ed  that  every  individual  in  that  moving  mass  pos 
sessed  an  immortal  mind,  and  was  pressing  their 
way  to  these  grassy  avenues,  passing  on,  step  by 
step,  toward  the  silent  grave,  the  thought  was 
overwhelming,  and  the  question  came  up,  "  Lord, 
what  is  man  that  thou  art  mindful  of  him,  or  the 
Son  of  man  that  thou  regardest  him  ?" 

As  we  crossed  Fulton  ferry  at  Brooklyn,  the 
waters  spoke  in  low,  dirge  like  voices  of  the  same 
Almighty  hand,  and  their  waves  were  tossed  into 
gentle  motion  by  the  passing  breeze,  and  seemed 
to  reflect  myriads  of  diamonds  upon  its  sparkling 
bosom,  as  it  lay  spread  out  before  the  eye  of  the 
beholder. 

The  bustling  throng  of  the  city  were  moving 
down  by  the  Battery  toward  the  steamboat  wharf. 
The  silver  fountain  sent  forth  its  sparkling  waters, 
and  the  white  swan  purved  its  graceful  neck  in  its 
mimic  lake,  and  the  walks  in  the  Battery  were 
neat  and  inviting  ;  but  these  attracted  not  the 


OF   THE   ATLANTIC.  229 

attention  of  the  passing  throng.  There  was  a 
more  intense  object  of  curiosity. 

The  beautiful  Atlantic  lay  at  the  wharf,  lifting 
high  her  huge  steam  pipes,  emitting  her  blinding 
steam,  and  impatient  to  try  her  strength  upon  the 
bosom  of  the  deep.  Her  deck  was  thronged  with 
human  beings,  filled  with  impatient  curiosity  to 
see  the  gallant  boat  launch  forth,  and  pursue  her 
way  over  the  waste  of  waters. 

Little  thought  that  gaping  multitude  of  the 
rich  freight  that  was  on  board  that  floating  bark, 
that  was  now  to  try  its  giant  strength  upon  the 
billowy  waves,  the  ocean  of  human  mind  broader, 
deeper  than  the  watery  waste  of  the  wide  Atlan 
tic.  O,  no,  they  thought  not  of  those  priceless 
treasures,  but  it  was  the  boat  and  her  noble  bear 
ings  that  attracted  all  eyes  and  was  the  absorbing 
theme  of  conversation. 

Near  by  lay  the  proud  Oregon,  apparently 
boasting  that  she  had  tried  her  strength,  and  was 
now  willing  to  contest  the  point  with  the  stranger 
boat,  and  be  her  pilot  down  the  Sound.  Her 
decks,  too,  were  crowded  with  passengers  anxious 
for  the  approaching  race,  for  which  every  prepar 
ation  was  making. 

The  sun  was  sinking  towards  the  west,  and 
shed  his  subduing  beams  over  the  face  of  nature. 
No  cloud  hung  its  fleecy  curtains  over  the  canopy 
of  heaven,  but  the  arch  of  cerulean  blue  hung  in 
deep  solemn  grandeur  over  the  gathered  crowd, 
over  the  boats  at  their  moorings,  and  over  the 
rippling  waves  that  mirrored  back  its  placid  smile 
from  their  own  tranquil  bosom. 


230  FIRST   AND    LAST  VOYAGE 

The  hour  came,  the  cheerful  bells  pealed  their 
cordial  invitation  for  all  to  come  on  board,  and  so 
they  hastened  on ;  the  second  bell  rang  its  de 
parture  to  the  multitude  on  the  shore,  and  soon 
the  sound  of  the  fierce  steam  whistle,  the  noise  of 
the  machinery,  and  the  splash  of  the  waters,  told 
that  the  boats  were  moving  like  a  thing  of  life  over 
the  bounding  billows.  The  officers  of  the  boat  and 
many  of  the  passengers  were  hurrying  round,  with 
busy  feet,  and  using  necessary  efforts  to  propel 
their  speed.  As  a  bird  cuts  the  air  or  an  arrow 
wings  its  feathery  course,  so  sped  the  boats  upon 
their  onward  way. 

The  crowd  on  the  shore  watched  them  till  they 
became  small  black  specks  in  the  distance,  and 
then  the  tumultuous  tide  of  human  life  turned 
towards  the  city's  mart,  and  mingled  again  in  its 
busy  fluctuations  and  its  change. 

There  was  a  delightful  view  as  the  boat  passed 
the  beautiful  villages  and  elegant  mansions  of  the 
wealthy  citizens  upon  the  surrounding  shore,  re 
flecting  the  mild  radiance  of  the  setting  sun. 

When  the  shadows  of  twilight  deepened,  and 
the  sable  curtains  of  night  hid  more  distant  objects 
from  view,  we  could  see  in  the  dim  distance  upon 
the  waste  of  waters,  the  heated  steam  pipes  of  the 
swift  Atlantic,  shedding  a  lurid  glare  upon  the 
surrounding  darkness. 

By  some  failure  in  the  fire  works  of  the  Oregon, 
one  of  the  boilers  refused  to  do  its  office,  and  it 
was  a  fearful  sight  to  some  on  board  to  witness 
the  high  pressure  principle  that  was  applied  to 
the  other  to  raise  the  steam.  The  blue  sky  was 


OP  THE  ATLANTIC.  231 

above  us  and  the  blue  waters  beneath,  and  mid 
night  shed  her  mysterious  shapes  and  phantom 
shadows  around  us,  and  awoke  memories  of  steam 
boat  disasters  and  perishing  crews  sinking  into  a 
watery  grave. 

The  ill-fated  Lexington  that  was  burned  upon 
this  very  track,  came  up,  haunting  the  imagina 
tion  with  wild,  fantastic  dreams. 

But  turning  from  a  land  of  fancies  and  of  shad 
ows,  we  raised  a  trusting  eye  to  the  glittering 
host  of  silent  stars  that  glistened  in  all  their 
matchless  beauty  in  heaven's  blue  vault  above, 
then  listened  to  the  dashing  of  the  briny  wave, 
and  felt  that  God  was  there,  that  His  eye  slum- 
bereth  not,  and  His  hand  holds  not  only  individual 
life,  but  the  destinies  of  nations,  and  at  this  sol 
emn  midnight  hour,  when  there  was  no  object  of 
His  creative  power  in  sight  save  the  spangled  arch 
above  and  the  foaming  waters  beneath,  it  was 
sweet  to  look  up  to  Him  in  confidence  and  trust, 
feeling  that  His  Almighty  arm  is  omnipotent  to 
save. 

About  midnight  the  ardor  of  the  race  abated. 
The  Atlantic  veered  off  in  a  different  direction 
toward  her  destined  port,  and  the  Oregon  pursued 
her  accustomed  way  to  her  usual  landing  in  Ston- 
ington. 

Both  boats  reached  their  places  of  destination 
in  safety,  and  thus  passed  the  first  night  of  the 
gallant  boat  upon  the  ocean  wave. 


232  FIRST  AND    LAST   VOYAGE 

It  was  a  cold  clay  when  sober  autumn  had  al 
most  accomplished  her  appointed  task,  and  swept 
cleanly  away  the  beautiful  shrubs  and  flowers, 
and  rolled  the  withered  leaves  before  his  chill 
ing  breath  to  prepare  for  the  entrance  of  cold, 
freezing  winter,  that  already  began  to  send  his  icy 
messengers  before  him,  touching  the  streams  with 
their  freezing  breath,  and  scattering  snow  flakes 
upon  the  barren  earth. 

It  was  on  such  a  day  when  autumn  came  forth 
dressed  in  the  icy  garb  of  winter,  that  the  Atlan 
tic  again  prepared  to  loose  from  her  accustomed 
moorings  and  ply  her  destined  way  to  the  busy 
city.  Day  after  day  she  had  performed  her  jour 
ney,  and  was  winning  public  confidence  in  her 
safety  and  expedition. 

Notwithstanding  the  inclemency  of  the  weather, 
many  sought  a  passage,  desirous  of  reaching  the 
distant  city  to  spend  the  coming  thanksgiving 
with  absent  friends.  The  wind  sighed  in  low, 
fitful  murmurs  as  it  bore  the  fleecy  snow  flakes 
upon  its  airy  pinions,  and  flung  them  unceremo 
niously  into  the  face  of  the  passing  traveler,  thus 
warning  him  of  a  fiercely  coming  storm. 

The  officers  hesitated,  as  the  ominous  sea  swell 
came  surging  on,  and  the  dashing  waves  moaning 
upon  the  winding  shore,  seemed  shrieking  a  sad 
requiem  over  the  departed. 

But  finally  the  urgency  of  the  passengers  was 
so  great,  that  they  concluded  to  put  forth  upon 
the  waste  of  waters  and  brave  the  fury  of  the 
midnight  storm. 

The  bell  gave  its  usual  signal,  and  as  its  stifled 


OF    THE    ATLANTIC.  233 

sounds  were  borne  upon  the  ear  by  the  howling 
winds,  they  sounded  like  a  death  knell. 

There  were  hurrying  vehicles,  and  the  busy 
tread  of  active  feet,  and  the  motley  group  were 
all  on  board,  and  many  sorrowing  friends  stood 
upon  the  shore,  breathing  a  tearful  farewell,  to 
the  dear  ones  who  were  going  from  them. 

The  man  of  God  was  there ;  he  had  committed 
his  interests  to  the  "  God  of  the  winds  and  the 
waves,"  and  his  heart  was  at  peace. 

The  gay  and  thoughtless  were  there,  who  heed 
ed  not  that  "  human  life  is  a  vapor,  that  passeth 
soon  away." 

The  second  bell  rang,  and  the  sound  fell  with 
that  leaden  weight  upon  many  hearts,  that  so  often 
comes  upon  us,  when  we  are  called  to  part  from 
some  dearly  loved  objects,  and  we  feel  that  it  may 
be  an  eternal  separation. 

The  boat  was  soon  gliding  over  the  foaming 
ocean,  and  the  sorrowing  friends  returned  to  their 
homes,  for  the  driving  snow  and  sleet  would  not 
permit  them  to  linger  long,  to  watch  its  progress. 

The  last  fond  look  was  given,  white  handker 
chiefs  fluttered  a  moment  in  the  sweeping  blast, 
and  the  last  farewell  had  passed  between  many 
fond,  loving  hearts. 

The  boat  pursued  her  dangerous  way,  amid  "  the 
windy  storm  and  tempest,"  and  hope  animated 
their  bosoms,  and  some  felt  sure  they  should  ar 
rive  in  safety. 

The  storm  and  darkness  increased,  the  wind 
blew  with  greater  violence,  and  the  tumultous  sea 


FIRST   AND    LAST   VOYAGE 

tiove  up  a  hollow,  bellowing  sound,  and  seemed 
threatening  swift  destruction. 

About  midnight  the  boat  became  unmanage 
able,  and  it  became  evident  to  all  on  board,  that 
many,  if  not  all,  must  perish. 

O,  who  may  paint  the  agony  of  that  fearful 
night  ?  when  death  was  heralding  his  approach,  in 
the  loud  surging  of  the  ruthless  blast,  and  the 
deep  toned  thunder  of  the  many  voiced  waters,  as 
they  dashed  their  giant  waves  against  the  ill-fated 
bark,  that  groaned  and  trembled  beneath  their 
mighty  pressure. 

Mingling  with  the  tumultous  groans  of  troubled 
nature,  arose  a  fearful  cry,  from  lips  white  with 
fear. 

The  solemn  voice  of  prayer  went  up,  and  there 
were  none  to  scoff,  when  the  aged  man  bent  his 
knee,  and  lifted  his  heart  to  God  in  prayer,  be 
seeching  him,'  for  Jesus  Christ's  sake,  to  have 
mercy  upon  their  souls.  Many  prayed  in  that  hour 
of  trial  that  never  prayed  before.  It  was  an  hour 
that  closed  the  scorner's  lip,  and  made  the  most 
profligate  feel  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a  prayer- 
hearing  God. 

The  bell,  as  if  by  some  mysterious  agency,  com 
menced  tolling,  and  its  sad  knell  sounded  through 
that  long  night,  over  the  bosom  of  the  lone  sea. 
It  was  the  same  bell  that  rang  so  loud  and  clear 
on  the  day  of  the  boat's  first  departure  from  New 
York ;  but  now  how  different  are  the  tones  as  they 
mingle  with  ocean's  wail,  and  the  fearful  shriek 
of  the  howling  blast. 

It  was  like  the  changes  that  come  over  us  so 


OF  THE   ATLNATIC.  235 

often,  as  we  toss  upon  the  tide  of  life,  and  buffet 
its  adverse  storms. 

Many,  ere  morning  dawned,  found  a  watery 
grave. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  particularize,  but  draw 
the  contrast  of  the  first  and  ]ast  night  the  beauti 
ful  boat  tossed  upon  the  mighty  deep. 

Perchance  the  same  eyes  that  witnessed  her  de 
parture  from  the  shore,  anxiously  watched  her  re 
turn  that  morning,  and  the  anticipated  greeting 
of  many  a  dear  friend  burned  bright  in  many  a 
heart,  but  was  soon — very  soon — to  be  forever  ex 
tinguished,  as  the  loved,  expected  form  was  even 
then  buried  beneath  the  ocean  wave.  Many  a 
mother  had  prepared  the  sumptuous  thanksgiving 
breakfast,  for  a  long-absent  expected  son,  who, 
perchance,  was  offering  up  his  thanksgiving  an 
them  before  the  throne  of  Grod. 

Hoary  age  and  helpless  infancy  fell  alike,  before 
the  destroying  angel,  and  there  were  vacancies  in 
almost  all  the  relations  of  life. 

How  often  it  is  thus  with  those  who  sail  in  life's 
frail  bark,  out  upon  the  ocean  of  time.  The 
morning  may  be  calm  and  serene,  and  the  golden 
sun  shed  his  glad  beams  upon  our  joyous  pathway, 
or  the  pale  moon  may  walk  forth  in  her  beauty, 
accompanied  by  all  the  hosts  of  twinkling  stars, 
to  gladden  the  night,  while  gentle  winds  sigh 
around  our  dwellings,  and  we  may  pass  on  in  the 
sunshine  and  the  calm.  But  clouds  will  arise, 
tempests  will  come,  for  the  waves  and  billows  of 
human  passions  will  surge  over  us,  and  many  a 


236     FIRST  AND  LAST  VOYAGE  OP  THE  ATLANTIC. 

frail  bark  is  shattered  and  stranded  beneath  their 
/ 

giant  strength. 

Weary  pilgrim  in  life's  rugged  journey,  there  is 
a  haven  of  peace,  where  thy  worn  spirit  may  find 
rest.  There  is  a  chart  to  guide  thee  over  the 
troubled  sea,  and  a  pilot  stands  ready  to  steer  thy 
little  bark  aright. 

His  beams  can  ever  shed  a  cheering  ray  upon 
thy  toilsome  way  ;  and,  oh,  may  you  see  light  in 
his  light. 

The  broad  ocean  of  eternity  lays  before  us ;  into 
that  must  our  little  shallop  pass,  and  meet  its  final 
award.  This,  this  is  all  that  is  worth  living  for — 
a  happy  entrance  into  the  presence  of  G-od,  that 

*'  We  may  bathe  our  weary  souls, 
In  seas  of  heavenly  rest." 


FATAL  FEAST. 


THE    FATAL    FEAST. 


WEALTH  would  have  a  birth-day  ball, 

A  high  and  lordly  feast : 
And  open'd  wide  his  spacious  hall, 

And  ask'd  in  many  a  guest. 

They  came — the  trifling  ones  of  earth, — 
A  gay  and  thoughtless  throng, 

To  join  in  revelry  and  mirth, 
With  music,  dance  and  song. 

High  waxen  tapers  burning  bright, 

Illum'd  the  brilliant  hall, 
And  threw  their  soft,  enchanting  light, 

In  dazzling  rays  o'er  all. 

Soft  music  echoed  sweetest  tones, 
By  unseen  minstrels  breath'd  ; 

The  air  was  laden  with  perfume, 

From  flow'rs  that  round  were  wreath'd. 

Beauty  was  there,  with  brilliant  eye, 
And  Health,  with  rosy  cheek, — 

Manhood,  with  forehead  stern  and  high, 
And  youth  with  many  a  freak. 

All — all  were  sparkling,  bright  and  gay, 
And  join' d  the  dance  or  song, — 

And  seem'd  unto  the  gazer's  eye, 
A  happy,  joyous  throng. 


238  FATAL   FEAST. 

And  Wealth  spread  out  his  costly  feast, 

And  gaily  all  partook  : 
The  choicest  viands  cheered  each  guest, 

As  all  with  pleasure  look. 

For  Luxury's  self  ne'er  spread  a  board 

With  dainties  so  profuse, — 
The  most  fastidious  must  be  pleas'd, 

For  he  had  but  to  choose. 

One  goblet  fill'd  with  nectar  bright, 

The  centre  seem'd  to  keep  ; 
And  when  'twas  pass'd  among  the  guests, 

They  all  quaff"  d  long  and  deep. 

The  music  never  ceas'd  its  strain, 
But  warbl'd  low  and  sweet ; — 

Sometimes,  soft  wailing,  'twould  complain- 
Then  mirth  the  ear  would  greet. 

All  seem'd  enchantment  spread  around, — 

A  golden,  fairy  dream  ; 
And  far  off,  mingling  in  the  sound, 

Was  heard  a  murmuring  stream. 

And  summer  breezes  softly  sigh'd, — 

And  wasted  sweet  perfume, 
Through  door  and  lattice,  open'd  wide, 

Around  the  spacious  room. 

When  mirth  was  in  its  wildest  mood, 
And  reign'd  in  every  breast, 

Sudden  there  stalk'd  into  the  hall, 
An  uninvited  guest. 

The  air  grew  chill,  the  lamps  burn'd  pale,- 
All  gaz'd  with  wild  dismay, 

The  music  turn'd  a  funeral  wail, — 
Then  sighing,  died  away. 


FATAL   FEAST.  239 

Twas  Death  that  came  into  the  hall, 

With  visage  wan  and  grim, 
And  throwing  off  his  siekly  pall, 

Disclos'd  each  meagre  limb. 

Some  rose  to  flee^but  palsied  fell, 

"  I'm  monarch  here,"  cries  Death; 
And  falling  bodies  quickly  tell 

His  power  o'er  life  and  breath. 

Beauty  lies  cold  in  his  embrace, 

And  pale  is  manhood's  brow; 
The  rose  that  crimson'd  youth's  fair  cheek, 

Lies  a  crush'd  lily  now. 

All,  all  have  sank  beneath  his  dart, 

Save  fashion's  ruthless  hold  ; 
She  still  maintains  her  iron  grasp 

O'er  bodies  pale  and  cold. 

6rold  glitters  on  the  pallid  brow, 

And  glassy  eye-balls  stare 
Through  glossy  ringlets,  clustering  bright,- 

Of  silken,  raven  hair. 

All  all  had  bow'd  to  Fashion's  shrine, 

To  deck  the  living  form, 
Through  which  will  drag  its  length'ned  slime r 

The  crawling  coffin  worm. 

The  morning  sun  had  risen  high, 

And  brightly  shone  o'er  all ; 
But  comes  no  voice,  and  wakes  no  eye 

Within  that  spacious  hall. 

A  traveller  passing  by  that  morn, 

Marvell'd  that  all  so  long 
Should  linger  in  that  festive  hall 

With  revelry  and  song. 


240  FATAL   FEAST. 

And  so  alighting  from  his  steed, 

He  cross'd  the  portal  high, 
And  glancing  o'er  the  silent  hall, 

The  sad  sight  met  his  eye. 

With  lightning's  speed  he  hurri'd  forth 

To  tell  the  dismal  tale, 
And  soon  were  gather'd  sorrowing  friends 

From  mountain,  hill,  and  dale* 

Sad  was  the  fun'ral  wail  that  rose 

From  that  infected  hall ; 
Nought  could  the  different  forms  define, 

But  Fashion's  slimpsey  pall. 

And  there  they  rais'd  one  common  tomb, 

And  left  them  to  their  sleep, 
'Till  Christ's  loud  trump  shall  wake  the  dead 

From  slumber,  long  and  deep. 

The  marble  monument  they  rais'd 

Doth  this  instruction  bear  : 
"  The  things  of  earth  pass  soon  away, 

To  meet  your  God  prepare." 

Many  voices  from  the  dead, 

Here  bid  you  well  beware; 
Tho'  youth  may  bloom  upon  your  cheek, 

Still,  still  for  death  prepare. 

The  flowing  nectar  that  had  grac'd 

The  centre  of  the  whole, 
And  so  enlivened  every  guest, 

Had  death  within  the  bowl. 

Some  small  ingredient,  when  'twas  fix'dt 

Was  left  by  a  mistake, 
And  others  were  together  mix'd, 

That  active  poison  make. 


ro  HIE  MAIDEN, 


TO    THE    MAIDEN, 


MAIDEN,  have  not  the  joys  of  eartJi 
Prov'd  fleeting,  and  of  little  worth  ? 
And  when  the  summer  sun  rode  high-, 
Have  clouds  ne'er  flitted  o'er  the  sky  ? 
Has  Hope  ne'er  sprung  beside  thy  way, 
And  blossom' d  only  to  decay  ? 
Has  Friendship  never  chang'd  her  tone-. 
And  'woke  a  sigh  for  pleasures  gone? 
Has  Love  ne'er  shed  his  fitful  gleam 
Across  thy  path — then  hid  his  beam? 
Hast  thou  ne'er  felt  the  solemn  truth— 
That  palsied  age  must  steal  o'er  youth  ; 
And  that  the  auburn  tresses  gay 
Must  soon  be  chang'd  for  mournful  gray 
Has  sickness  never  pal'd  the  rose; 
That  on  the  cheek  of  beauty  glows-, 
And  ghastly  death,  with  funeral  gloom, 
Oft  call'd  the  lovely  to  the  tomb? 
Ah,  maiden,  yes,  that  tell-tale  sigh, 
The  downcast  glances  of  thine  eye, 
Say  that  thy  heart  is  but  the  tomb 
Of  hopes  that  wither'd  in  their  bloom  ; 
•Say  that1,  where  all  things  else  decay, 
Thy  fragile  form  must  pass  away. 
Then  why  so  fondly  cling  to  earth, 
Whose  joys  are  of  so  little  worth  ? 
But  rather  raise  your  thoughts  on  high, 
Where  Hope's  fair  promises  ne'er  die, 
Where  ghastly  death  holds  no  domain, 
But  endless  youth  and  beauty  reign. 
IK 


TO  MRS  B ,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  SON, 


How  frail  are  all  the  things  of  earthy 

How  subject  to  decay  ; 
Scarce  they  receive  their  fragile  birth 

Ere  they  are  swept  away. 

And  tyrant  death,  with  icy  hand, 

Is  ever  lurking  near, 
And  binding  in  his  frozen  band, 

The  forms  to  us  most  dear. 

But  do  not  niourn  the  early  dead, 
Whose  thread  of  life  is  riven  ; 

'Tis  Jesus  calls  them  from  the  earth, 
To  be  with  Him  in  heaven. 

Spotless  and  pure  they  pass  from  earth., 

And  Jesus  bids  them  come  ; 
And  glorious  is  their  heavenly  birth 

In  their  eternal  home. 

No  more  you'll  hear  the  plaintive  voice, - 
"  Mother,  dear  mother,  where?" 

Your  child  shall  with  his  God  rejoice 
In  full  fruition  there. 

No  more  shall  burning  fever  rage, 

No  more  shall  pain  oppress, 
But  angel  strains  his  tongue  engage 

In  hymns  of  righteousness. 


TO    MRS.    B.  243 

And  when  life's  ebbing  sands  shall  fail, 

And  pallid  death  shall  come, 
May  you  then  look  within  the  vail, 

To  that  eternal  home. 

And  then,  perhaps,  your  gentle  child, 

So  soon  from  sin  set  free, 
May  be  the  first  of  angel  bands, 

Brightly  to  welcome  -thee. 

So  do  not  mourn  the  early  dead, 

So  sinless  and  so  fair, 
But  be  prepared  to  join  their  bliss. 

Thus  is  the  stranger's  prayer. 
2K 


O    COME   BACK,    MY   BROTHER. 


0  COME  BACK,  MY  BROTHER. 


MY  brother,  0,  come  back  to  play, 
For  all  the  flow'rs  are  springing  gay, 
And  all  the  birds  sing  on  the  spray  ; 
So,  come  back,  my  brother. 

'Twas  winter  when  you  hung  your  head, 
And  lay  so  pale  upon  your  bed, 
And  mother  told  me  you  were  dead, 
My  poor  little  brother. 

Then  the  birds  all  went  away, 
And  all  the  leaves  fell  from  the  spray, 
And  all  the  streams  forgot  to  play, 
Just  like  you,  my  brother. 

Then  deep  fell  the  drifting  snow, 
And  loud  the  wintry  winds  did  blow, 
And  all  the  flow'rs  were  buried  low, 
Just  like  you,  my  brother. 

But  now  the  sun  is  riding  high, — 
The  busy  bee  comes  humming  by, 
And  spring's  soft  gales  around  us  sigh; 
0  come  back,  my  brother. 

Your  little  rose-bush  springs  to  view, 
Your  daffodils  and  daisies  too, 
And  ev'rything  comes  back  but  you, 
My  poor  little  brother. 


O  COME  BACK,  MY  BROTHER.       245 

O,  could  I  ope  the  grassy  mound, 
With  which  your  lovely  form  is  bound, 
And  break  your  slumber,  so  profound, 
My  poor  little  brother. 

Then  gentle  mother  'd  cease  to  mourn, 
And  speak  to  me  in  that  sad  tone  ; 
And  pity  me  because  alone  ; 

0,  come  back,  my  brother. 

And  yet,  I  know,  it  cannot  be, 
That  thou  wilt  ever  come  to  me  ; 
But  I  must  shortly  go  to  thee, 
My  poor  little  brother. 

I  know  that  thy  once  lovely  form, 
Now  feeds  the  cruel  coffin  worm,— 
And  that  corruption  doth  deform 
All  traces  of  my  brother, 

i     I  know  that  life  will  swiftly  glide,—" 
That  death's  bark  floats  upon  the  tide, 
And  soon  will  lay  me  by  your  side, 
My  dear  buried  brother. 


Then  may  our  souls  together  reign, 
On  yonder  bright,  aerial  plain, 
And  shout  a  loud,  seraphic  strain, 
In  happiness,  my  brother. 

3K 


THE    TWINS. 


THE    TWINS 


IT  was  a  sad  day  in  autumn,  pale,  withering 
autumn,  when  a  little  group  of  friends  collected 
round  the  cradle  of  an  infant  of  a  few  weeks,  who 
had  tasted  the  cup  of  life,  and  now  was  turning 
seemingly  disappointed  away  from  the  bitter  por 
tion.  The  mild  blue  eyes  were  raised  to  heaven', 
and  that  heavenly  angelic  expression,  so  peculiar 
to  expiring  infancy  rested  upon  his  face,  which 
was  lovely  in  the  extreme,  though  wasted  by  dis 
ease.  He  was  tenacious  of  life,  and  lingered  long 
in  the  embrace  of  the  pale  messenger,  although 
the  eye  was  dim  and  the  wrist  pulseless. 

The  father,  mother,  sister,  and  brother,  and 
grandmother,  sat  watching  the  quivering  flame 
that  would  rally  for  a  few  moments,  then  wane 
again.  Near  by  sat  the  nurse,  bearing  upon  her 
lap  the  little  twin  sister,  who  had  her  birth  at  the 
same  hour  with  him,  and  who,  like  him  too,  was 
passing  away. 

How  soon  they  wearied  of  life,  those  frail,  gen 
tle  ones,  and  the  angel  came  to  bear  them  to  a 
brighter,  holier  world,  where  the  purity  of  their 


THE   TWINS.  247 

sinless  spirits  should  remain  untarnished  by  the 
Wight  and  pollutions  of  earth. 

We  watched  till  the  sun  went  down  in  the 
western  sky,  dim  and  shadowy,  enshrined  long 
before  his  setting  by  a  yellow  autumnal  haze,  that 
cast  a  melancholy  subduing  shade  over  the  face  of 
decaying  nature  that  hung  out  her  fading  flowers 
and  withered  leaves,  as  a  token  of  the  sad  change 
that  was  passing  in  her  realm,  while  the  evening 
breeze,  as  it  swayed  the  branches  of  the  trees, 
bearing  many  a  leaf  to  the  ground,  and  drifting 
them  before  his  melancholy  breath,  seemed  sigh 
ing  a  sad  requiem  over  departed  glory- 
Such  a  scene,  at  such  an  hour,  spoke  forcibly  of 
the  varied  changes  and  uncertainties  of  life,  and 
as  we  looked  upon  the  marble  paleness  of  the 
clear  children,  and  compared  them  with  the  with 
ering  flowers  beneath  the  window,  we  felt  that 
human  life  is  but  a  flower  that  perisheth. 

In  this  instance,  the  worm  had  sapped  the  bud 
ere  the  brighter  tints  were  developed.  As  we 
stood  in  that  chamber  of  death,  we  felt  that  God 
was  present,  that  He  who  had  given  life  was  about 
to  take  it  back  to  reign  with  Him,  and  though  the 
deep  fountains  of  grief  were  stirred,  there  came  a 
"  still,  small  voice,"  heard  through  the  silence  of 
that  lone  room,  "  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am 
God,"  and  we  bowed  in  submission  to  the  Divine 
will. 

The  mist  broke  from  the  face  of  the  sun,  and 
his  last  setting  beams  looked  forth  clear  and  bright 
upon  the  earth,  tinging  the  fleecy  clouds  with 
gold  and  purple,  and  they  looked  like  gorgeous 

4K 


248  THE    TWINS. 

piles  of  molten  gold,  over  hung  with  crimson  and 
purple  curtains,  forming  a  sumptuous  canopy  to 
decorate  the  heavens. 

Even  so  with  the  babe,  life's  feeble  taper  seem 
ed  to  revive  and  emit  a  brilliant  glare  for  a  mo 
ment,  the  lips  parted,  the  eyes  wandered  from 
object  to  object,  and  seemed  to  survey  all  the 
room  contained,  gazing  most  earnestly  upon  the- 
face  of  the  little  sister,  so  soon  to  follow  him, 
then  wearily  closing  them  with  a  slight  struggle,, 
the  spirit  passed  away. 

As  we  folded  him  in  the  vestments  of  the  grave 
and  laid  him  into  the  silent  halls  of  death,  hope 
whispered  of  a  glorious  resurrection  morn,  when 
those  blue  orbs  should  again  awake  from  that  long; 
peaceful  sleep,  and  look  out  upon  the  beauties  of 
the  upper  world. 

They  placed  his  little  form  in  a  wide  coffin,  and 
laid  it  in  the  tomb  to  await  the  coming  of  his. 
little  sister. 

A  week  passed  away,  a  week  of  weary  watch 
fulness  and  anxiety,  of  pain,  suffering  and  distress, 
and  the  angel  returned  again  for  the  twin  spirit. 

It  was  at  the  deep  midnight  hour  when  he  an 
nounced  his  mysterious  presence,  by  laying  his 
icy  hand  and  spreading  his  marble  paleness  over 
the  form  of  the  departing  sister.  The  little  frame 
was  convulsed,  and  writhed  beneath  the  grasp  of 
the  pale  visitant,  but  he  pitied  not,  relented  not, 
but  steady  to  his  purpose,  snapped  the  brittle 
thread  of  life,  performed  the  task  he  had  been 
commissioned  with,  and  hurried  away  from  that 
place  of  tears  to  cast  his  deep  shadow  over  the 


THE   TWINS.  249 

sun  light  of  other  homes,  and  fill  other  hearts  with 
grief,  and  cause  other  eyes  to  look  red  with  weep 
ing,  "  because  death  has  come  into  the  world,"  and 
the  children  of  men  must  fall  before  his  withering 
blight. 

Already  had. decomposition  commenced  its  re 
pulsive  work  in  the  form  of  the  little  son,  and  he 
was  laid  away,  while  the  coffin  returned  for  the 
other  dear  one,  who  was  to  moulder  with  him  in 
its  narrow  confines. 

Deposited  in  the  same  tomb,  was  a  coffin  cover 
ed  with  mould.,  and  just  ready  to  drop  from  the 
shelf  upon  which  it  was  placed,  and  the  shrunken 
boards  had  separated,  and  it  \vas  perforated  with 
large  cracks  where  it  had  been  joined  together. 
The  lid  was  always  unscrewed,  and  was  often 
raised  by  the  hand  of  a  fond  mother,  who  looked 
upon  the  dust  of  an  only  daughter,  who  had  been 
the  idol  of  her  heart.  She  had  spared  no  pains  in 
educating  her,  and  she  had  well  repaid  the  labor 
bestowed  upon  her  in  the  acquisition  of  know 
ledge. 

She  was  beautiful  in  person,  amiable  in  disposi 
tion,  and  was  beloved  by  a  large  circle  of  ac 
quaintances.  She  was  married  early,  to  the  com 
panion  of  her  choice,  wrho  had  been  attentive  to 
her  from  childhood,  declaring  the  first  time  he  saw 
her,  he  never  saw  such  beautiful  curls  in  his  life, 
as  Annie  Grey's. 

She  had  two  little  sons,  and  all  looked  bright 
and  prosperous  ;  Annie  was  happy  in  the  affection 
of  her  husband,  her  children  and  her  friends,  but 
death  lingered  not  for  these  things  ;  he  came,  a 

5K 


250  THE   TWINS. 

most  unwelcome  visitant,  and  bore  his  unwilling 
victim  from  the  presence  of  her  agonized  mother, 
"  to  join  the  pale  nations  of  the  dead." 

She  dressed  her  in  the  gilded  trappings  of  life, 
bolstered  her  up  in  bed,  and  curling  her  beautiful 
hair  in  glossy  ringlets  over  her  pale  face,  had  her 
likeness  taken  as  large  as  life,  and  touched  with 
natural  coloring,  thus  preserving  the  form  and 
features  of  her  child,  upon  the  senseless  canvass, 
which  was  kept  hung  up  in  her  room,  covered 
with  black  crape,  during  her  life  time. 

Annie  ever  expressed  repugnance  at  the  idea  of 
being  deposited  in  the  ground,  and  her  mother  had 
this  tomb  built  that  she  might  there  repose,  and 
she  could  watch  her  sleeping  dust  as  ifc  crumbled 
to  decay. 

Who  that  looked  in  upon  that  mouldering  mass 
of  blackened  dust,  and  contrasted  it  with  the 
beautiful  form  that  moved  in  life,  but  learned  an 
impressive  lesson  of  the  change  that  death  makes 
upon  the  form  of  youth  and  beauty  ?  She  had 
slept  there  many  years,  and  the  mother  felt  the 
time  was  approaching,  when  she  must  take  the 
last  look  of  those  dear  remains,  and  have  them  re 
moved  to  the  second  vault,  or  buried  beneath  the 
grassy  turf;  but  ere  the  time  arrived,  the  great 
reaper  gathered  father  and  mother  into  his  abund 
ant  harvest,  and  laid  them  by  her  side. 

Her  husband,  many  years  before,  had  passed 
from  life's  busy  scenes,  and  closed  his  eyes  forever 
upon  earth. 

The  little  girl  was  placed  in  a  coffin,  and  borne 
by  weeping  friends  to  the  burial  place,  and  with 


THE   TWINS.  251 

her  dead  brother,  lay  side  by  side,  beautiful  in 
death. 

Fresh  buds  were  placed  in  the  hands  of  each,  as 
they  lay,  with  their  little  arms  entwined  around 
each  other,  and  their  white  marble  faces,  looking 
up  to  the  pure  sky  above,  while  their  half-open 
lids  displaying  their  blue  orbs,  seemed  looking  out 
beneath  the  drooping  fringes,  to  take  a  last  fare 
well  of  earth,  sun,  sky,  friends,  and  all  the  endear 
ing  associations  of  life. 

A  little  mound  was  raised  beside  the  grave  of 
the  maternal  grandfather,  who  had  fallen  sudden 
ly,  in  the  meridian  of  life,  while  the  strength  of 
manhood  was  yet  upon  him.  As  the  aged  grand 
mother  turned  from  the  grave  of  the  little  ones, 
she  gave  one  lingering  glance  to  her  husband's 
grave,  and  removing  her  glove  from  her  hand, 
pressed  the  marble  slab,  that  stood  at  the  head  of 
jt,  and  passed  on,  with  a  sigh  and  a  tear,  to  fulfil 
the  remaining  duties  that  awaited  her  in  life. 

She  had  parted  from  him,  many  long  years  be 
fore,  and  now  she  had  lived  her  threescore  years 
and  ten,  and  her  head  was  whitened  with  passing 
years  ;  but  the  infant  of  a  few  days  had  gone  be 
fore  her.  But  a  few  more  years  passed,  and  you 
looked  in  vain  upon  earth  for  that  weary  voyager. 

6K 


ON   THE   FRAILTY   OF   EARTHLY   THINGS. 


ON  THE  FRAILTY  OF  EARTHLY  THINGS. 


THE  things  of  earth  are  false,  as  fair? 

And  glitter  to  betray, 
They  scarce  outlive  the  sunny  glare 

Of  one  short  summer  day. 

The  hours — how  rapid  in  their  flight, 

And  days  pass  swift  away, 
Scarce  dawning  ere  the  shades  of  night 

Chase  its  bright  beams  away. 

The  dew-drop  trembling  on  the  flow'r, 
Gemm'd  by  the  morning's  ray, — 

Glitters  scarce  one  little  hgur, 
Ere  it  is  dried  away. 

The  butterfly  with  gilded  wing. 

That  flits  from  spray  to  spray, 
Is  but  an  evanescent  thing, 

That  passeth  soon  away. 

The  flow'rs — those  gay  and  brilliant  things, 

So  charming  to  the  eye, 
Soon  fold  their  wither'd  petals  up, 

And  fade  away  and  die. 

The  busy  bee,  with  drowsy  hum, 
That  through  the  summer  day, 

Flies  sipping  round  from  flow'r  to  flow-r, 
Bearing  its  sweets  away, 


ON  THE  FRAILTY  OF  EARTHLY  THINGS.        253 

Is  soon  constrain'd  by  wintry  winds, 

To  seek  her  honi'd  cell, 
And  giving  o'er  her  wand'ring  life, 

In  quiet  there,  to  dwell. 

And  rosy  health  that  paints  the  cheek 

With  richest  crimson  dye, 
And  bids  the  heart  of  kindness  speak 

From  beauty's  flashing  eye. 

Soon,  soon  withdraws  the  blushing  rose, 

And  leaves  the  lily  there  : 
Bedims  the  lustre  of  the  eye, 

And  pales  the  cheek  with  care. 

I  saw  a  smiling  infant  stand 

By  its  fond  mother'.?  side  : 
She  fondly  pressed  one  dimpl'd  hand 

With  sweet  maternal  pride. 

Her  form  was  faultless  to  behold, 

And  every  infant  grace 
Beam'd  sweetly  from  her  radiant  eye, 

And  rosy  dimpl'd  face. 

But  sudden  stiffness  seiz'd  those  limbs, 

A  gurgling  stopp'd  her  breath  : 
Those  eyes  that  shone  so  bright  before, 

Were  soon  npturn'd  in  death. 

And  love  that  fills  the  youthful  breast. 

With  visions  bright  and  gay, 
Oft  strews  his  downy  nest  with  thorns, 

And  quickly  flies  away. 

And  friendship,  that  peculiar  boon, 

From  God  to  mortals  given, 
That  seems  a  brilliant  golden  link, 

Uniting  earth  with  heaven, 


254    ON  THE  FRAILTY  OF  EARTHLY  THINGS. 

Is  broken  off,  and  often  turn'd 

With  careless  heart  away, 
And  hatred  fills  the  self  same  place 

Where  gentle  love  had  sway. 

But  oh  !  how  poison'd  is  the  dart 

That  sheds  its  venom  there, 
And  drives  uncherish'd  from  the  heart, 

The  gift  so  good  and  fair. 

An  aching  void  must  ever  dwell 

Within  the  stricken  heart ; 
For  who  can  all  the  suffering  tell 

When  friends  in  hatred  part  ? 

Then  do  not  fondly  cling  to  earth, 
Where  all  things  must  decay  : 

Where  happiness  scarce  has  its  birth 
Ere  it  is  swept  away. 

Lean  not  on  earth,  'twill  pierce  the  heart, 

At  best  a  broken  reed, 
And  oft  a  spear  where  hope  expires, 

And  peace  as  often  bleeds. 

But  far  beyond  yon  azure  sky, 

Yon  sparkling  star-lit  dome, 
Let  your  aspiring  hopes  ascend, 

For  there's  your  heav'nly  home. 


TO    A    FRIEND. 


TO    A    FRIEND. 


I  LOVE  to  watch  thy  youthful  eye, 
That  speaks  thy  fond  affection  ; 

I  love  to  hear  thy  tender  sigh, — 
It  charms  my  deep  dejection. 

The  gentle  beamings  of  that  eye 
Have  power  to  soothe  each  sorrow, 

While  casting  hope's  refulgent  dye, 
In  glances,  on  to-morrow. 

My  love  is  clear  as  crystal  streams, 
Flowing  from  sylvan  fountains, — 

And  pure  as  Phoebus'  noon-day  beams, 
That  gild  yon  rising  mountains. 

And  constant  as  the  Northern  Bear, 
That  guards  the  pole  unceasing, 

And  ushers  in  the  new-born  year, — 
Nor  waning,  nor  decreasing. 

But  still,  shouldstthou  faithless  prove, 
Thy  plighted  vows  resigning, 

Leave  me  and  seek  another  love, 
I'd  bear,  without  repining. 

No  discontent  should  fill  my  breast, 

But  calm  as  summer  even, 
I'd  still  look  forward  to  my  rest, 

In  yonder  vaulted  heaven . 


25 G  TO   A    FRIEND. 

Ami  still  I'd  breathe  my  pray'r  for  theo 
With  all  my  soul's  devotion, 

Till  life  itself  should  cease  to  be, 
And  death  chill* d  each  emotion. 

Then  calm  as  day's  expiring  breath. 

Each  injury  forgiven, 
My  ramson'd  soul  should  take  its  flight, 

And  wing  its  way  to  Heaven. 


THE    MOTHER   AND    HER   CHILD. 


THE  MOTHER  AND  HER  CHILD. 


CHILD,  raise  a  fervent  prayer  to  heav'n, 
That  this  day's  sin  may  be  forgiv'n, 
Ere  you  sink  to  sweet  repose, 
While  eveDing's  shadows  round  you  close. 

The  golden  sun  has  sunk  to  rest, 
Behind  the  curtains  of  the  west, 
And  rosy  twilight,  soft  and  mild, 
Brings  gentle  slumber  to  my  child. 

The  busy,  bustling  cares  of  day, 
In  noise  and  tumult  pass'd  away  ; 
Solemn  night,  so  still  and  deep? 
Bids  nature's  wearied  children  sleep. 

Soft  is  the  pillow  of  your  rest, —  . 
With  health  and  friends,  and  comforts  blest 
Then  raise  a  fervent  prayer  to  heav'ii, 
That  ev'ry  sin  may  be  forgiv'n. 

The  child  began,  "  Father  forgive 
My  many  sins,  and  bid  me  live  : 
May  I  be  humble,  meek  and  mild, 
Like  Jesus,  when  a  little  child. 

"  0  may  this  feeble  soul  of  mine. 
Be  join'd  to  Christ,  the  living  vine  ; 
May  I  ever  bow  the  knee, 
And, '  Abba,  Father,'  cry,  to  thee. 


258  THE   MOTHER   AND    HER   CHILD. 

"  Father,  in  heaven,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  make  a  little  child  thy  care, 
Jesus  has  said,  so  let  it  be, 
v.         'Suffer  such  to  come  to  me.' 

''But,  mother,  why's  my  pulse  so  still? 
Mother,  why  is  the  air  so  chill  ? 
And,  mother,  why  are  ftngels  fair 
Hov'ring  o'er  me,  in  the  air  ? 

"  Mother,  with  thce  I  cannot  stay,—* 
Those  angels  beckon  me  away  ; 
I  feel  this  night,  so  still,  so  deep, 
Will  bring  to  me  a  lasting  sleep.  " 

*'  My  child,  my  child,  can  it  be  so  ? 
Can  I  let  my  darling  go? 
Oh,  yes — 1  sec  itplainly  now, — 
'Tis  death's  cold  hand  upon  thy  brow. 

"  Come,  lay  thy  iey  cheek  to  mine,— 
I'd  kiss  thee  once,  ere  I  resign 
To  icy  death,  thy  lovely  form, 
To  feed  the  gnawing  coffin  wcrm. 

•"  Corruption,  nor  the  coffin  worm, 
Can  thy  triumphant  soul  deform  ; 
That,  enraptur'd,  shall  arise, 
To  dwell  with  Christ,  beyond  the  skies. 

'"Tis  the  dear  Saviour  bids  thee  come,— 
His  angels  wait  to  bear  thee  home  ; 
Loudly,  he's  saying  now  to  thee,— - 
'  Suffer  such  to  come  to  me.'  " 

•"  Mother,  all  things  are  pure  and  bright 
I,  see  them  by  a  heavenly  light, 
And  beaming  in  the  distance  far, 
£  see  the  glorious  morning  Star. 


THE   MOTHER   AND    HER    CHILD.  259 

"  Farewell,  mother,''  but  the  name 
Died  on  her  lips — life's  quiv'ring  flame 
Had  just  expir'd  ;   that  deathless  soul 
Had  burst  its  chains,  and  pass'd  the  goal. 

The  mother  meekly  knelt  in  prayer, — 
She  felt  that  God's  own  hand  was  there, 
Then  wip'd  one  pearly  tear  away, 
And  rose  to  shroud  her  lifeless  clay. 

So  sweet  a  smile  the  lips  still  wreath'd. 
It  seemed  life  through  their  parting  breath'd, 
So  gently  death  had  o'er  her  crept, 
That  all  who  gaz'd  might  deem  she  slept. 

The  mother  watch'd,  with  earnest  eye, 
Her  youngest  child  before  her  lie, 
Then  meekly  glancing  up  to  heaven, 
"Father,  she  was  not  lent,  but  given. 

"  Father,  thou  hast  in  mercy  spoken,— 
A  tender  tie  from  earth  is  broken, 
But  that  same  tie  is  link'd  to  heaven, 
And  stronger  faith  and  hope  arc  given. 


A  MOTHER'S  PRAYER 


A    MOTHER'S   PRAYER. 


MY  children  all  have  sunk  to  rest, 
The  youngest  pillow'd  on  my  breast, 
And  though  'tis  midnight,  stern  and  deep, 
I  still  a  mother's  vigil  keep. 
Why  comes  so  oft  the  unbidden  sigh  ? 
Why  springs  the  tear-drop  to  my  eye, 
And  why  this  agonizing  prayer, 
Ming'ling  with  the  midnight  air  ? 
0,  God,  to  thee  I  lift  mine  eye, 
Help  thou,  or  else  my  children  die. 
To  thee  my  inmost  thoughts  arise; 
By  faith  I  pierce  the  vaulted  skies, 
And  there  I  see  thy  risen  Son, 
Seated  beside  thee  on  the  throne, 
His  pitying  accents  cry  "Forgive," 
And  let  the  thoughtless  sinner  live. 
"  Father,  I  have  been  crucified — " 
"  An  ignominious  death  have  died, — '' 
"Deep  agony  for  sin  have  known;" 
"Father,  and  will  not  this  atone  ? 
I  come,  too,  leaning  on  His  breast, 
There  all  my  hopes  and  wishes  rest, 
And  join  with  His  my  pleading  voice, 
That  they  may  all  in  God  rejoice. 
May  one  melodious  concert  rise 
From  angels,  bending  from  the  skies  : — 
O'er  new-born  souls,  redeemed  on  earth, 
Rejoicing  in  their  heav'nly  birth. 
Lead  them  in  pastures  green  and  fair, 
And  gardens  planted  by  thy  care  ; 


A  MOTHER'S  PRAYEK.  261 

Where  streams  of  free  salvation  flow, 

And  fruitful  trees  of  knowledge  grow. 

Father,  I  ask  not  sordid  wealth, 

Nor  the  more  precious  boon  of  health  ; 

The  only  blessing  that  I  crave 

Is  endless  life  beyond  the  grave  ; 

That  when  the  icy  hand  of  death 

Shall  seize  their  frames,  and  stop  their  breath, 

Their  souls  on  wings  of  faith  may  rise 

To  life  and  joy  beyond  the  skies. 

O  Father,  grant  me  this  request 

And  I  shall  be  supremely  bless'd ; 

Bend  ev'ry  stubborn,  wilful  knee, 

And  draw  each  wand'ring  heart  to  thee. 

But  hark  !  I  hear  a  cheering  voice 

That  bids  my  waiting  soul  rejoice. 

"  Be  still,  and  know  that  I  am  God,'' 

And  bow  submissive  to  the  rod. 

It  seems  almost  that  voice  from  heav'n, 

Had  spoke  my  childrens'  sins  forgiven, 

So  suddenly  had  calmness  stole 

O'er  the  deep  currents  of  my  soul. 

Glory  to  God,  who  whispers  peace, 

And  bids  our  hope  and  faith  increase  ; 

Glory  to  God,  be  echo'd  then, 

'Till  earth  repeats  the  long  amen. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN     IN     AN     ALBUM. 


EARTHLY  beauties  soon  decay, 
Earthly  pleasures  fade  away ; 
Then  raise  your  fond  desires  to  heaven, 
And  let  not  all  to  earth  be  giv'n. 

Though  touch'd  by  brilliant  rainbow  dyes, 
Earth  can  contain  no  lasting  prize. 
But  high  above  yen  azure  dome, 
The  ransom'd  spirit  finds  a  home. 

0,  then  make  wisdom's  ways  your  choice 
In  early  youth.     You  will  rejoice 
To  tread  the  straight  and  narrow  way, 
That  upward  leads  to  endless  day. 

Then  when  life's  little  day  is  past, 
Angels  shall  welcome  thee  at  last 
To  yonder  blissful,  happy  shore, 
Where  sin  and  sorrow  come  no  more. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF   A   MOTHER. 


0  BEING  a  robe  of  snowy  white, 
And  fold  it  lightly  o'er  her  breast ; 

Cold  and  pulseless  now  it  lies, 
The  sainted  spirit's  sunk  to  rest ; 

And  gently  fold  the  toil-worn  hands, 
And  softly  close  the  weary  eyes  ; 

Life'e  rugged  journey  now  is  past, 

And  calm  in  death's  cold  sleep  she  lies. 

That  gentle  heart  has  ceas'd  to  feel 
The  gushings  of  a  mother's  love  ; 

But  now  a  purer,  holier  flame, 

Springs  up  in  brighter  realms  above. 

And  mother,  though  the  tender  tie 
Uniting  us,,  has  thus  been  riven, 

May  we  not  feel  a  stronger  bond 

Drawing  our  trusting  hearts  to  heaven  ? 

Now  oft  when  evening's  shadows  steal 
Across  my  path,  thy  voice  I  hear: 

Again  its  well  rernember'd  tones 

Seem  murmuring  on  my  childish  ear. 

And  oft,  when  sorrow  fills  my  breast, 
And  my  worn  spirit  turns  from  earth, 

There  comes  a  gentle,  well  known  voice, 
Whisp'ring  of  the  spirit's  birth. 

'Twas  hers  to  guide  our  infant  feet 

In  wisdom's  straight  and  narrow  way, 
To  lead  us  to  a  Saviour's  cross, 
;  And  teach  our  infant  lips  to  pray. 


264       ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MOTHER. 

But  now  how  blissful  is  her  state, 

Free  from  this  cumb'rous,  earthly  clod, 

Herransom'd  spirit  fill'd  with  praise, 

Joins  the  pure  throngs  that  worship  God. 

She's  join'd  her  children  in  their  home, 
In  those  bless'd  mansions  far  away, 

Where  sin  nor  death  can  ever  come, 
But  all  is  bright,  eternal  day. 

And  though  our  mother 's  pass'd  from  earth, 
An  angel  bending  from  the  skies, 

Is  ever  hov'rmg  o'er  our  path, 
Urging  our  weary  souls  to  rise. 

Then  let  us  her  sweet  precepts  take, 
Tread  in  the  paths  our  mother  trod, 

Walk  prayerfully  the  narrow  way. 
Directed,  by  theAvordof  God, 

Cleans'd  by  a  dying  Saviour's  blood, 
We  may  obtain  the  promis'd  rest ; 

And  when  wo  pass  away  from  earth, 
Join  our  dear  mother  with  the  bless'd. 

Peace  to  thy  memory,  mother  dear, 
Sweet  be  thy  slumber  in  the  tomb, 

'Till  Christ  in  judgment  shall  appear, 
And  call  His  ransom'd  children  home. 


THE    MUSIC    OF   EARTH. 


THE  MUSIC  OF  EARTH. 


THERE'S  music  in  the  summer  breeze, 

That  sighs  along  the  bow'rs  ; 
There's  music  in  the  hum  of  bees, 

That  flit  among  the  flow'rs. 
There's  music  in  the  gentle  show'r 

That  patters  on  the  spray  ; 
And  music  in  the  bubbling  brook 

.  That  dances  on  its  way. 
There's  music  in  the  rustling  leaf. 

Before  the  zephyr's  sigh. 
And  music  in  sweet  childhood's  laugh, 

As  it  comes  ringing  by. 
There's  music  in  the  warbler's  song, 

That  trills  his  matin  lay  ; 
And  music  in  the  evening  breeze, 
*As  soft  it  dies  away. 
There's  music  in  "  Old  Ocean's  "  wave, 

That  breaks  upon  the  shore  ; 
And  music  in  the  tempest's  moan, — 

The  distant  thunder's  roar. 
There's  music  in  the  things  cf  earth, 

Sweet  music  that  we  love  ; 
But  oh,  there's  music  sweeter  far 

In  yon  bright  world  above. 
Where  angel  bands,  with  golden  harps, 

Sing  loud  of  sins  forgiven  ; 
And  praises  to  a  Saviour  slain, 

Fill  the  high  dome  of  heaven. 
1L 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON   THE    DEATH   OF  MRS.  CAROLINE  P.  BALDWIN, 
WHO   DIED   JULY    6,   1827. 

0  BRING  a  wreath  of  summer  flow'rs, 
And  twine  it  lightly  round  her  brow ; 

How  calmly  pass  these  holy  hours — 
Mysterious  death  is  with  her  now. 

His  icy  breath  is  on  her  cheek, 

His  dew  is  freezing  on  her  brow  ; 
Her  eyes  no  more  earth's  shadows  seek — 

Eternity's  before  them  now. 

She  sees  a  glittering  angel  band, 

On  downy  pinions  floating  by, 
To  waft  her  to  the  spirit  laud, 

Beyond  the  blue  etherial  sky. 

And  hears  low  music  stealing  by, — 
From  golden  harps  the  concert  rings  ; 

Earth  mingles  in  the  melody 

That  rises,  to  the  King  of  kings. 

"•  Husband,  I  know  I'm  dying  now, 
Life's  golden  sands  are  waning  fast; 

Seal  on  my  lips  the  parting  kiss, — 
It  is  the  last  one — yes,  the  last. 

"  Now  bring  to  me  our  blue  eyed  boy  r — 

I'd  gaze1  upon  his  face  once  more  ; 
May  he,  kept  from  earth's  alloy, 

Meet  me  on  yon  blissful  shore." 


LINES  267 

"  Mother,  your  love  is  pure  and  deep — 

I  know  the  fount  will  never  dry  ; 
But  in  its  onward  current  keep, 

Through  a  long  eternity. 

"  Sister,  I'm  passing  to  the  tomb, 

When  life's  young  morn  is  fair  and  bright; 

And  shrouded  soon,  my  youthful  bloom 
Shall  dreamless  sleep  in  death's  dark  night  t 

"Dark,  did  I  say — 0,  no,  I  see 

The  golden  city  full  in  view  ; 
The  pitying  Saviour  smiles  on  me, 

And  angel-bands  conduct  me  through. 

"  Sweet  as  the  carol  of  a  bird, 

Soft  as  the  gentlest  summer  sigh, 
When  scarce  one  trembling  leaf  is  stirr'd 

My  sinking  pulses  faint  and  die." 

And  so  death  rested  on  her  cheek, — 
Lingering  in  "  strange  beauty  there  ;" 

That  seraph  smile  a  rapture  speaks — 
That  earthly  pleasures  may  not  share* 


LINES. 


WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK-ROOM,  APRIL  ]5,  1855. 

0,  FOLD  my  flowing  curtains  by, 

I  faiu  would  catch  the  breath  of  spring, 

And  breathe  its  gentle,  balmy  sigh, 
As  soft  it  floats  on  silken  wing. 

Lightly  it  fans  my  pallid  cheek, 
And  cools  the  fever  of  my  brow, 

And  seems  of  coming  health  to  speak, 
As  soft  it  murmurs  round  me  now. 

Oh,  there  are  those  in  life's  young  morn, 
Who,  gazing  forth  with  earnest  eye, 

Feel  that  spring's  joyous,  glad  return, 
Brings  but  to  them  the  time  to  die. 

While  I,  a  pilgrim,  worn  and  gray. 

Wearied  with  care,  still  linger  on, 
Life's  path  to  tread j  one  little  day, 

Before  the  feverish  race  is  run. 

On  the  great  battle-field  of  life, 
The  warp  of  destiny  is  spread, 

And  countless  millions  in  the  strife, 
Supply  the  woof  with  varied  thread. 

0,  there  are  some,  with  hearts  of  truth, 
With  courage  bold,  and  daring  high, 

Whose  texture  scarce  from  early  youth, 
Presents  one  blemish  to  the  eye. 


LINES.  269 

And  there  tiro  those  all  steeped  in  crime, 

Whose  fabric  is  one  constant  stain  ; 
Who  fill  up  their  appointed  time, 

With  conduct  vile,  and  lips  profane. 

There  are  bright  streaks  of  glowing  hope, 
And  blackened  shades  of  deep  despair, — 

All  smiles  of  joy,  all  tears  of  grief, 
Like  rainbow  dyes  are  blended  there, 

Repentance,  with  her  bitter  tears, 

Would  wash  some  dismal  crime  away ; 

And  Terror,  arm'd  with  many  fears, 
Stands  pointing  to  a  future  day. 

And  Happiness,  with  sunny  smile, 

Weaves  in  her  roses,  rich  and  rarf, 
Love,  Constancy  and  Truth,  wo  find, 

And  trusting  Faith,  with  humble  prayer. 

Vain  were  the  effort  to  portray 

The  varied  shades  life's  scenes  present; 

But  oh,  how  swift  the  shuttles  play, 
By  every  thought  or  action  sent. 

And  so  each  one  is  weaving  fast 

His  little  web  of  human  life  ; — 
Happy  those,  who  find  at  last, 

They  have  conquered  in  the  strife. 

It  matters  not  how  short  the  warp, 

If  to  the  goal  the  object  tend, 
For,  oh,  we  know,  "  That  life  is  long 

That  answers  life's  great  end." 
3L 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   IN   A   SICK  ROOM,   JULY  20lH,    1855. 

THE  voice  of  "  many  waters  " 

Is  murmuring  on  my  ear, 
And  mingling  in  the  mystic  strains 

A  mother's  voice  I  hear. 
Two  white  rob'd  cherub  sisters 

Stand  harping  by  her  side ; 
A  brother  in  the  concert  joins, 

Who  erst  in  Jesus  died. 

And  other  sainted  spirits, 

Who've  pass'd  from  earth  away, — 
Stand  wooing  me  to  join  their  bands 

In  realms  of  endless  day. 
The  flow'rs  are  blooming  brightly, 

The  tree  of  life  is  seen ; 
And  so  inviting  stand  the  fields, 

"  Array 'd  in  living  green." 

The  Saviour  sheds  his  presence, 

In  radiance  round  the  place  : 
And  joy  and  adoration 

Beams  bright  on  ev'ry  face. 
Loud  swells  the  pealing  anthem, 

Through  the  high  dome  of  heav'n, 
"  Worthy  the  Lamb,  who  once  was  slain," 

And  hath  our  sins  forgiv'n. 

As  thus  I  gaze  enraptur'd, 
And  drink  heav'n's  spirit  in 


LINES.  271 


Earth's  costliest  tow'rs  and  palaces 
Look  faded,  worn  and  dim ; 

And  death's  cold  stream  that  murmurs 
So  hoarsely  on  my  ear  ; 

If  Jesus  were  my  pilot 
I'd  cross  without  a  fear. 

But  oh!  the  tide  is  turning, 

Health  flows  through  ev'ry  vein: 
And  I<e  little  longer 

On  time's  dark  shore  remain. 
But  thoti,  celestial  city  ! 

I'd  keep  thee  still  in  view, 
And  gladly  would  the  summons  heed 

That  wafts  my  soul  to  you. 
4L 


TO    A    FRIEND, 


TO    A    FRIEND. 


SWEET  comes  the  gentle  breath  of  spring, 
Sighing  soft  among  the  flow'rs, 

Or  sporting  high  on  airy  wings, 
Fanning  the  leaves  upon  the  bow'rs. 

The  golden  sun  looks  gladly  down 

Upon  the  vari'gated  earth  ; 
Encouraged  by  his  genial  rays, 

Her  garner'd  treasures  have  their  birth. 

But  thoughthe  face  of  earth  is  fair, 
Chance  and  change  are  busy  here  ; 

And  her  rugged,  chequer'd  path, 
Is  water'd  oft  by  sorrow's  tear. 

Her  bosom  holds  our  treasur'd  dead, 
The  lov'd  who  in  our  pathway  trod  : 

Whose  place  is  found  on  earth  no  more, 
But  the  freed  spirit's  soar'd  to  God. 

When  ling'ring  in  the  place  of  graves, 
Came  there  no  voice  from  out  the  tomb, 

Whisp'iing  to  thy  spirit's  ear, 

"  Mother,  when  will  the  morning  come  ?' 

"  0  mother,  yes,  it  soon  will  come, 
The  glorious  resurrection  morn. 

When  Christ  shall  wake  the  sleeping  dead, 
And  an  immortal  day  shall  dawn. 


TO   A    FRIEND.  273 

And  though  your  path  may  lead  you  forth 

From  early  friends  far,  far  away ; 
Far  from  your  darling  children's  graves, 

Jacob's  God  shall  be  your  stay. 

Your  chasten'd  soul  from  sorrow's  cup, 

Has  often  drank  the  bitter  draught ; 
But  ere  the  portion  was  consumed, 

A  mingled  sweet  thy  spirit  quaff  d. 

Sister  in  Christ,  G-od  be  thy  stay, 

And  lead  as  He  has  led  before ; 
And  keep  thee  "  in  the  narrow  way," 

Where  pleasures  dwell  for  ever  more. 

Perchance  we  may  not  meet  again 
"While  ling'ring  in  this  vale  of  tears  ; 

But  mem'ry  casts  a  hallow' d  spell 
Over  the  scenes  of  other  years. 

And  tre'asur'd  in  her  secret  cells, 

My  much  loved  friend,  are  thoughts  of  thee  ; 
And  if  we  meet  no  more  on  earth, 

I  feel  thou  'It  sometimes  think  of  me. 

Now  fare  thee  well,  sweet  sister  dear, 
God  speed  thy  bark  o'er  life's  dark  sea  ; 

Safe  moor  it  in  the  port  of  peace, 
Thy  pilot,  friend,  and  helper  be. 
5L 


THE  MOTHER'S  WATCH. 


THE  MOTHER'S  WATCH. 


0,  NO,  he  will  not  come  to-night, — 
The  stars  are  fading  from  the  sky ; 

I've  watch'd  their  dim,  expiring  light, 
With  an  unwearied,  earnest  eye, 

And  soon  the  golden  king  of  day 

Morn's  eastern  gates  will  open  wide  ; 

And  mounted  on  his  fiery  car, 
Triumphant  over  earth  will  ride. 

And  she  array'd  in  robes  of  green, 
Adorned  with  vari'gated  flowers, 

Will  welcome  him  with  smiling  mien, 
While  soft  winds  sigh  along  the  bowers. 

He'll  kiss  the  roses  on  her  cheek, 

And  dry  the  tear-drop  from  her  eye, — 

Cast  a  glad  smile  o'er  all  her  face, 
And  gild  each  stream  that  glances  by. 

And  she'll  spread  out  her  tempting  store 
Of  fruits  and  flew'ers,  to  his  warm  ray ; 

He'll  touch  them  with  his  genial  smile, 
As  glad  he  runs  his  joyous  way. 

But  soon  his  journey  will  be  o'er, 
And  the  dun  curtains  of  the  west, 

Will  hide  his  beams,  while  low  he  sinks 
Upon  the  pillow  of  his  rest. 


THE  MOTHER'S  WATCH.  275 

And  soft  will  steal  the  twilight  hour, 

And  bring  again  my  watch  for  thee  ; 
Ob,  who  may  tell  a  mother's  love, 

Or  fathom  that  unbounded  sea  ? 

Time,  that  has  pass'd  with  rapid  flight, 

On  silent  pinions,  hurrying  by, 
Has  witness'd  oft  the  midnight  watch, 

Of  the  fond  mother's  earnest  aye. 

In  infancy,  when  feverish  dreams 

Disturb'd  her  darling  as  he  slept, 
How  anxious  was  the  mother's  watchj 

As  she  her  nightly  vigil  kept. 

Her  watch  is  o'er  the  cradle  cast, 

Through  childhood's  wild  and  flow'ry  maze  ; 
Her  hand  would  lead  through  youth's  gay  scenes, 

And  smooth  the  path  of  riper  days. 

Would  shield  from  each  impending  ill, — 
Would  guard  from  ev'ry  dang'rous  snare, 

Instruct  the  reason,  curb  the  will, 

And  lift  to  heaven  the  trusting  prayer. 

And  should  the  pois'nous  flowers  that  bloom 

Beside  his  path,  tempt  him  to  rove, 
To  bring  the  thoughtless  wanderer  back, — 

How  earnest  is  a  mother's  love. 

And  so  we  watch  from  youth  to  age, — 

From  the  soft  cradle  to  the  grave  ; 
No  power  can  check  a  mother's  love, 

That  would  from  sin  and  sorrow  save. 


WHY   SHOULD    I    SMILE? 


WHY  should  I  smile  in  mockery  now, 

When  grief  sits  heavy  on  my  brow  ? 

Or  strive  in  anguish  to  repress 

The  tears  of  gushing  tenderness, 

That  from  my  heart's  deep  fountain  rise, 

And  rush  unbidden  to  my  eyes? 

Oh  let  me  weep,  for  there's  a  balm 

In  tears,  they  bring  a  holy  calm  : 

And  yield  a  soothing,  sweet  relief 

To  hearts  that  else  would  burst  with  grief. 

Yes,  I  will  weep  in  hopeless  woe, 

Until  my  tears  refuse  to  flow ; 

For  lo !  before  my  mental  gaze, 

The  hopes  and  joys  of  other  days, 

Come  gathering  round,  a  mystic  band, 

Like  phantoms  from  the  spirit  land  ; 

And  one  by  One  they  pass  me  by, 

"With  bloodless  cheek  and  hollow  eye," 

And  seem  to  mock  me  as  they  go, 

In  tones  of  bitterness  and  woe. 

Oh,  how  unlike  the  glittering  throng 

That  smiling  beckon'd  me  along, 

And  strewd  with  fragrant  flow'rs  my  way, 

In  childhood's  bright  and  sunny  day. 

They  came  in  glittering  robes  arrayed, 

O'er  golden  harps  their  fingers  strayed, 

And  from  their  robes  of  spotless  white 

They  scattered  showers  of  sparkling  light. 

O,  how  could  my  fond  heart  believe 

They  glittered  only  to  decieve  ; 

To  visions  bright  as  fairy  land, 


WHY    SHOULD   I    SMILE?  277 

Hope  pointed  with  her  magic  hand, 
And  love,  with  soft  and  speaking  eye. 
And  tones  of  thrilling  witchery, 
A  dream  like  mist  around  me  threw, 
Ting'd  by  many  a  rainbow  hue. 
And  friendship,  with  her  smiling  face, 
Clasped  me  within  her  warm  embrace, 
And  fondly  whisper'd  in  mine  ear, 
Sweet  words  of  hope  I  loved  to  hear. 
And  0,  how  fondly  did  I  fling 
On  friendship's  shrine,  the  offering 
Of  my  young  heart :   nor  could  I  deem 
Her  words  were  but  an  idle  dream ; 
But  oh,  the  illusion  fled  too  late, 
It  left  my  heart  all  desolate. 


THE   YOUTH'S   RETURN. 


THE  YOUTH'S  RETURN. 


'TwAs  evening,  and  sweet  melting  strains 

Of  music  floated  by, 
While  the  soft  splendor  glowed  around, 

Of  an  Italian  sky. 

Within  a  green  and  fragrant  bower, 

Sat  a  young,  dark  eyed  girl ; 
And  midst  her  glossy  raven  hair, 

Shone  many  a  costly  pearl. 

Fair  was  that  high  born  maiden's  brow, 

And  stately  was  her  air  ; 
And  the  proud  beauty  of  her  face 

Was  all  undimmed  hy  care. 

And  in  her  dark  and  shadowy  eye 

There  dwelt  a  tender  light, 
Like  some  soft  trembling  star  that  shines. 

Upon  the  brow  of  night. 

And  the  sweet  music  of  her  voice 

Was  thrilling,  soft  and  low, 
As  tones  of  an  ^Eolian  harp, 

When  southern  breezes  blow. 

And  costly  gems  that  lady  wore, 

And  jewels  rich  and  rare, 

But  her  beauty  far  outshone 

'The  brightest  jewel  there. 


THE  YOUTH'S  RETURN.  279 

Bright,  glowing  pictures  hung  around, 

So  exquisitely  fair — 
Touch'd  with  such  wondrous  skill  they  seemed 

To  breathe  in  beauty  there. 

Delicious  odor  fill'd  the  room, 

Wafted  from  orange  bow'rs : 
The  fragrance  mingling  with  perfume, 

Of  rare  exotic  flow'rs. 

In  thoughtful  mood  that  lady  sat, 

While  her  dark,  lustrous  eye, 
Looked  out  in  pensive  tenderness, 

Upon  the  glowing  sky. 

She  thought  upon  a  noble  youth, 

A  brave  and  gallant  knight, 
Whoso  heart  was  true  to  woman's  love, 

And  strong  amid  the  fight. 

And  noble  deeds  that  youth  had  done, 

And  won  a  glorious  name ; 
Which  future  ages  would  enroll 

Upon  the  book  of  fame. 

E'en  now,  he  hastes  that  maid  to  greet — 

Safe  from  the  war  returned ; 
Impatient  at  her  feet  to  lay 

The  laurels  ho  had  earned. 

Ah,  lady,  thou  wilt  never  more 

Thy  gallant  lover  see  ; 
His  eye  of  melting  tenderness 

Will  never  rest  on  thee. 

Death  saw  that  gentle  maiden  there, 

By  dreams  of  love  beguiled  ; 
He  gazed  upon  her  winning  charms, 

As  hideously  he  smiled. 


280       THE  YOUTH'S  RETURN. 

Full  many  a  bright  and  lovely  form, 
Beneath  his  touch  had  died  ; 

But  she,  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Ho  thought  to  make  his  bride. 

With  noiseless  step  and  watchful  eye 

He  stole  into  her  bower  ; 
She  felt  his  chill  and  icy  breath, 

And  withered  in  an  hour. 

The  soft  light  faded  from  her  eye, 

And  pallid  grew  her  face, 
As  folded  in  Death's  icy  arms, 

She  felt  his  cold  embrace. 

Her  breath  came  heavily  and  slow, 
Vainly  she  tried  to  speak  ; 

The  life  blood  froze  around  her  heart, 
And  curdled  in  her  cheek. 

And  when  her  maidens  sought  her  there 

At  the  accustomed  hour, 
They  found  her  cold  and  motionless, 

Within  that  leafy  bower. 


TO    A- 


TO  A- 


WHEN  the  spring  tide  of  thy  life  shall  have 
passed  away,  with  all  its  joyous  anticipations  and 
budding  hopes — when  Summer  with  the  music  of 
its  birds  and  the  perfume  of  its  flowers,  and  mel 
ancholy  Autumn,  with  its  faded  leaf  and  sighing 
winds,  shall  have  chased  each  other  down  the  tide 
of  time,  and  the  cold  blasts  of  Winter  have  begun 
to  chill  the  life-blood  in  thy  veins — when  the 
hand  that  penned  these  lines  shall  be  mouldering 
in  dust,  and  the  friends  of  thy  youth  who  journey 
ed  with  thee  along  the  pathway  of  life,  and  who 
cheered  thee  with  the  music  of  their  voices  and 
the  light  of  their  smiles  have,  perchance,  one 
by  one  passed  away,  and  left  thee  to  journey  on 
in  loneliness  of  heart,  when  the  light  of  thine 
own  eye  shall  have  become  dimmed,  and  thy  sun 
ny  hair  whitened  by  the  frosts  of  age — when  thy 
voice,  which  was  wont  to  gush  forth  in  melody 
and  song,  entrancing  the  ear  and  cheering  the 
heart  of  the  listener,  has  become  weak  and  trem 
ulous,  and  care  and  sorrow  have  set  their  seal 
upon  thy  brow.  Oh,  then  may  the  recollection 
of  no  misspent  hours,  of  no  neglected  opportuni- 


282  TO  A . 

ties  for  doing  good,  or  wasted  privileges,  arise  like 
dim  meteors  from  the  tomb  to  haunt  thee  with 
their  reproach,  but  may  the  smiles  of  an  approv 
ing  conscience  beam  upon  thee  ;  may  sweet  peace 
and  hope  administer  the  balm  of  consolation  to 
thy  wounded  spirit;  may  angels  hover  o'er  the 
couch  of  thy  repose,  and  fan  thee  with  their  balmy 
wings,  and  when  thy  tired  spirit  shall  burst  its 
prison  house  of  clay, 

May  they  bear  it  to  mansions  of  the  blest, 
There  to  repose  on  Jesus'  breast ; 
From  every  pain  and  sorrow  free, — 
This  is  the  boon  I  ask  for  thee 


BEAUTIES    OF    NATURE. 


BEAUTIES    OF   NATURE. 


THIS  is  indeed  a  beautiful  world.  As  we  sit  by 
our  window,  and  gaze  out  upon  the  landscape  that 
lies  spreads  out,  diversified  by  hill  and  dale,  and 
and  waving  tree  and  murmuring  rivulet ;  as  we 
listen  to  the  warbling  of  the  birds,  the  dreamy 
hum  of  the  insects,  and  the  low  whispering  of  the 
soft  summer  air,  as  it  floats  by,  redolent  with  per 
fume  of  flowers,  we  are  deeply  impressed  with  the 
truth,  that  the  Being,  who  could  create  such  a 
world,  must  be  a  great  and  glorious  Being,  before 
whom  we  ought  to  humble  ourselves  in  deep  hu 
mility. 

Yet  the  little  that  we  are  able  to  behold  at  one 
view,  is  but  as  a  grain  of  sand  upon  the  sea-shore, 
compared  with  the  vast  world  that  lies  stretched 
out  beyond  our  vision.  Diversified  by  lofty  moun 
tains,  whose  snow-capped  summits  tower  far  up 
towards  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  and  are  covered 
with  perpetual  clouds  and  mists ;  the  mighty  ocean, 
whose  bosom  heaves,  and  moans,  and  wails,  as 
though  convulsed  by  some  terrible  agony,  and 
which,  in  its  frantic  fits,  rages  with  ungovernable 


284        THE  BEAUTIES  OF  NATURE. 

fury;  the  deep,  broad,  glassy  rivers,  that  flow  in 
quiet  beauty,  to  mingle  their  waters  with  the 
ocean,  the  foaming  cataract,  the  broad  green 
prairie,  variegated  by  nature's  choicest  flowers,the 
old  majestic  woods,  that  have  been  styled  nature's 
cathedral,  whose  dim,  silent,  far-stretching  aisles 
have  never  been  trodden  by  the  foot  of  man  ;  but 
I  must  stop,  overwhelmed  by  the  magnitude  of 
my  subject.  It  were  impossible  for  the  most  gift 
ed  pen  to  do  justice  to  the  beauty,  the  grandeur, 
the  sublimity  of  the  theme. 

Even  those  who  have  climbed  the  lofty  moun 
tain  tops,  and  found  themselves  lost  amidst  the 
clouds,  who  have  been  rocked  upon  the  bosom  of 
the  heaving  ocean,  and  seen  it  when  the  elements 
held  terrible  contest,  when  the  howling  winds 
lashed  its  waves  to  wild  frenzy,  when  the  sheeted 
lightnings  played  upon  its  surface,  and  the  deep, 
heavy  peals  of  thunder  reverberated  through  the 
heaven's  vast  concave,  and  those,  too,  who  have 
traversed  the  broad  prairie,  that  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach,  stretches  out  in  wavy  undulations,  who  have 
heard  the  eternal  thunder  of  the  cataract,  as  its 
waters  plunge  madly  into  the  abyss  below,  who 
have  wandered  amidst  orange  bowers  and  spicy 
groves,  and  as  Pollock  expresses  it,  "  have  mused 
on  ruins  grey  with  years,  and  drank  from  old  and 
fabulous  wrells,  and  plucked  the  vine  that  first 
born  prophets  plucked;  and  mused  on  famous 
tombs,  and  on  the  waves  of  ocean  mused,  and  on 
the  desert  waste  :  the  heavens  and  earth  of  every 
country,  seen  where'er  the  old  inspiring  Genii 
dwelt,  aught  that  could  rouse,  expand,  refine  the 


THE    BEAUTIES    Otf    NATURE.  285 

soul,"  even  such  would  fail  to   do  justice  to  the 
glowing  theme. 

What  renders  the  pleasure  that  nature  confers 
doubly  valuable,  is,  that  it  is  free  for  all.  The 
poor  as  well  as  the  rich  participate  in  its  enjoy 
ment.  The  sun  dispenses  its  genial  light  and 
warmth  as  generously  npon  the  beggar,  who  seeks 
his  daily  bread  from  door  to  door,  as  upon  the 
crowned  monarch.  The  bird  carols  as  sweet  a  lay 
for  the  toil-worn  peasant,  who  labors  from  morn 
till  night,  io  gain  a  scanty  subsistence,  as  for  the 
titled  nobleman,  who  rolls  along  in  his  gilded 
chariot.  The  little  ragged  sunburnt  child  of  pov 
erty  may  pluck  the  wayside  flowers  with  as  much 
freedom  as  the  child  of  wealth,  who  is  nurtured 
upon  the  lap  of  luxury  and  ease.  The  cool  sum 
mer  breeze,  laden  with  grateful  perfume,  fans  the 
hot  brow  of  the  slave,  weary  and  fainting  beneath 
his  task,  as  freely  as  it  does  that  of  his  pompous 
and  lordly  master.  Our  souls  seem  to  be  united 
by  a  bond  of  sympathy,  with  the  inanimate  ob 
jects  of  creation.  There  are  many  poor  beings 
who  are  obliged  to  toil  from  early  dawn  far  into 
the  hours  of  night,  to  obtain  bread  for  themselves 
and  those  who  are  dearer  to  them  than  life,  and 
who  have  never  been  instructed,  even  in  the  first 
rudiments  of  science.  Yet,  are  they  conscious  of 
possessing  bright  gems  of  thought,  which  they  find 
it  impossible  to  detach  from  the  dust  and  rubbish 
and  cobwebs  of  ignorance,  with  which  their  minds 
are  filled.  There  are  many  such,  who,  bound 
down  by  the  grinding  hand  of  oppression,  which 
would,  if  it  were  possible,  crush  out  all  aspira- 


286  BEAUTIES    OF    NATURE. 

tions  of  the  mind  for  something  higher,  nobler, 
more  exalted  in  the  scale  of  being,  are  obliged  to 
suppress  that  longing  of  the  soul  that  will  at  times 
arise  to  explore  the  mysterious  labyrinths  of  know 
ledge,  yet,  even  such,  can  hold  sweet  communion 
with  the  works  of  creation.  The  great  volume 
of  nature  lies  open  before  them,  and  though,  in 
studying  its  pages,  they  often  make  wild  mistakes, 
yet  they  fear  no  ridicule. 

When  they  gaze  upon  the  blue  vault  of  heaven, 
bespangled  with  all  its  countless  gems,  though  the 
conclusions  they  arrive  at  are  far — very  far  from 
truth,  yet  the  placid  moon  looks  down  upon  them 
as  queenly  as  though  they  understood  all  the  laws 
by  which  she  is  governed.  As  they  contemplate, 
with  wonder  and  admiration,  the  shining  stars  with 
which  the  brow  of  night  is  studded,  though  they 
understood  not  all  the  principles  that  astronomy 
unfolds,  concerning  those  heavenly  bodies,  yet, 
no  scornful  light  flashes  from  those  brilliant  orbs, 
as  they  look  down  from  their  high  estate  ;  and  al 
though  they  do  sometimes  emit  a  merry  twinkle, 
yet,  there  is  nothing  of  ridicule  in  the  expression: 
but  it  seems  rather  to  woo  the  beholder,  to  gaze 
upon  their  wondrous  beauty. 

The  sweet  flowers  look  up  to  them  as  lovingly 
inviting  them  to  partake  of  their  precious  sweets, 
as  though  they  understood  all  their  several  pro. 
perties,  and  knew  how  to  assign  to  each  its  place 
in  the  vegetable  kingdom.  It  is  true,  the  poor 
possess  not  all  the  means  of  the  rich  for  exploring 
what  is  rare  and  curious  in  the  works  of  nature 
They  are  obliged  to  confine  themselves  to  what  is 


BEAUTIES    OF    NATURE.  2S7 

presented  to  their  view  in  their  own  immediate 
neighborhood  ;  but  there  is  enough  even  in  the 
tamest  prospect,  to  excite  the  wonder  and  admira 
tion  of  the  beholder,  and  to  inspire  them  with 
emotions  of  love  and  gratitude  towards  the  great 
Creator. 

Yet,  grand  and  beautiful  and  sublime  as  this 
world  is,  God  has  only  fitted  it  up  as  a  temporary 
abode  for  man ;  he  does  not  consider  it  a  fit  dwell 
ing  place  for  his  children  to  inhabit  through  all 
eternity.  We  are  told  that  when  the  "  spirits  of 
the  just  made  perfect"  leave  this  world,  they 
will  go  to  a  better  world :  a  more  costly  and 
magnificent  abode,  that  God  has  prepared  for  them. 
Yes,  costly  indeed,  since  a  title  to  an  inheritance 
in  that  better  world  is  purchased  by  the  blood  of 
his  only  Son  ;  and  we  are  told  that  it  is  not  in  the 
heart  of  man  to  concieve  of  the  glory  and  mag 
nificence  of  that  place,  that  is  to  be  the  home  of 
those  who  accept  of  the  terms  by  which  it  is  to 
be  secured ;  and  what  are  those  terms  ?  why, 
merely  to  repent  and  believe  on  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  and  to  seek  forgivness  for  our  sins  through 
his  blood. 

To  put  our  trust  in  God,  to  love  him  supreme 
ly,  and  to  seek  to  do  his  will ;  and  are  not  these 
conditions  very  easy  ?  Can  we  help  loving  such 
a  God,  so  great,  so  good,  and  who  has  been  at 
such  infinite  pains,  and  given  such  a  costly  sacri 
fice  to  secure  the  happiness  of  his  subjects  ?  And 
can  we  help  loving  the  Saviour  who  was  willing 
to  be  made  a  sacrifice  to  secure  the  eternal  happi 
ness  of  a  lost  and  ruined  race ;  and  who  left  a 


288  BEAUTIES   OP    NATURE. 

home  of  glory,  of  bliss,  and  joy  inexpressible,  to 
come  to  a  world  where  lie  must  suffer  persecution, 
contempt,  and  mockery ;  where  he  would  be  re 
viled,  and  spit  upon,  and  taunted,  and  finally  die 
a  cruel  and  ignorninous  death  upon  the  cross  ? 

All  this  he  suffered,  that  sinners  through  his 
sufferings  might  receive  a  title  to  the  joys  of  that 
better  world  that  God  has  prepared  for  those  that 
love  him.  Oh  how  cold,  how  hard,  how  utterly 
lost  to  all  grateful  emotions,  must  that  heart  be 
that  could  treat  with  scorn  or  indifference  that 
dear  Saviour  who  has  done  so  much  for  them,  and 
prepared  for  all  who  will  accept,  a  happy  entrance 
into  a  world  of  ineffable  light  and  glory. 

Where  the  sun  does  not  emit  its  golden  beams, 
nor  the  moon  shed  her  paler  rays,  and  no  golden 
star  spangles  the  canopy,  but  God's  countenance 
lights  the  place,  and  the  Lamb  is  in  the  midst ; 
He  who  was  offered  for  the  remission  of  sin. 
Who  would  not  enter  this  world  of  happiness, 
where  sin  enters  not,  pain  or  sickness  come  not, 
and  death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory  ?  Where 
the  saints  of  the  most  high  God  are  clothed  upon 
with  the  righteousness  of  Christ,  and  the  "  spirits 
of  the  just  made  perfect"  join  with  angels  and 
arch-angels,  in  singing  sweet  songs  of  redeeming 
love. 

But  angels  cannot  appreciate  the  full  rapture 
of  the  redeemed  soul.  We  cannot  comprehend 
here,  fully,  but  the  mind  is  overwhelmed  when 
we  contemplate  the  revelations  of  the  Gospel, 
"  Come  then  expressive  silence,  muse  His  praise." 


ON   THE   DEATH    OF   WILLIE    WHITE. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIE  WHITE, 

WHO   WAS   DROWNED   SEPT.    21,    1856, 


How  suddenly  this  opening  flow'r 
Was  borne  from  earth  away ; 

In  sweeter  fragrance  to  unfold 
In  realms  of  endless  day. 

The  angel  gaz'd  with  pitying  eye 

O'er  all  life's  devious  way  ; 
Then  pluming  bright  his  golden  wings, 

Bore  his  freed  soul  away. 

Now  when  you  gather  round  your  hearth, 
There's  Willie's  vacant  chair  ; 

And  Willie's  voice  of  childish  mirth, 
Is  missing  every  where. 

And  oft  you  gaze  upon  his  toys, 
'Till  weeping  eyes  grow  dim  ; 

You  know  he  cannot  come  to  you, 
But  you  must  go  to  him. 


THE   HUMAN   HEART, 


THE    HUMAN    HEART. 


THE  human  heart's  a  mystery, 

That  few  can  understand ; 
And  all  its  trembling  chords  should  be 

Swept  with  a  gentle  hand. 

For  if  we  rudely  strike  the  strings 
Whence  melody  should  flow, 

A  harsh,  unnatural  discord  rings, 
Of  bitterness  and  woe. 

We  mingle  with  the  joyous  crowd, 
Where  all  is  bright  and  gay, 

With  music  light,  and  laughter  loud, 
They  pass  the  hours  away. 

How  oft,  amid  such  scenes,  the  heart 

Is  sad,  we  know  not  why  ; 
And  though  a  smile  the  lips  may  part, 

A  tear  steals  to  the  eye. 

And  then  we  quickly  turn  away 

To  hide  the  starting  tear, 
While  the  music  of  their  laughter  falls 

Dirge-like  upon  the  ear. 

And  we  wonder  why,  when  all  around 

Is  song  and  revelry, 
Their  joyous  mirthfulness  should  sound, 

To  us,  so  mournfully. 


THE    HUMAN    HEART.  291 

And  yet,  sometimes  the  simplest  thing, 

Such  happiness  affords, 
It  seems  as  though  an  angel's  wing 

Had  swept  the  trembling  chords. 

The  gushing  music  of  thii  rill, 

The  whisp'ring  of  the  breeze, 
And  the  low  and  gentle  rustling 

Of  the  leaves  upon  the  trees. 

The  sweet,  sad  sighing  autumn  winds, 

As  mournfully  they  blend, 
Speak  to  the  heart  as  if  in  words, 

Of  a  departed  friend. 

And  as  we  listen,  breathlessly, 

To  the  low,  mysterious  tone, 
We  deem  some  angel  spirit 

Is  whisp'ring  to  our  own. 

But  suddenly,  a  careless  tone, 

Or  word  in  harshness  spoken, 
Recalls  the  wand'ring  spirit  home, 

And  the  spell  is  rudely  broken. 

And  then  a  sad,  lone  feeling  steals 

Upon  the  weary  heart, 
And  amid  the  gloom  we  only  feel 

A  longing  to  depart. 

A  longing  to  depart  and  be 

Amid  the  angel  choir, 
Where  perfect  love  and  sympathy 

Shall  tune  each  heart  and  lyre. 

2M 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON  THE   DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND. 


OH,  who  would  check  the  starting  tear, 
Or  who  suppress  the  rising  sigh, 

When  those  we  fondly  cherished  here, 
In  early  youth  are  called  to  die  ? 

Such  was  thy  fate,  my  early  friend, 

Thus  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom ; 

No  aid  that  earthly  love  might  lend, 

Could  save  thee,  dear  one,  from  the  tomb. 

I  call  to  mind  thy  greetings  warm, 
Thy  gentle  smile,  thy  winning  grace, 

And  weep  that  now  thy  fragile  form, 
Lies  cold  and  still  in  Death's  embrace. 

But  though  I  miss  thy  winning  smile, 
And  the  sweet  music  of  thy  voice, 

That  could  my  weary  heart  beguile  ; 
Yet  I,  amid  my  tears,  rejoice, 

That  thou,  thus  early,  didst  depart : 
When  all  around  was  fair  and  bright : 

Ere  yet  thy  fond,  confiding  heart 
Had  felt  of  earthly  woe  the  blight. 

For  it  is  sweeter,  far,  to  die 

When  the  young  heart  with  hope  is  fill'd, 
Than  live  o'er  ruined  hopes,  to  sigh 

When  cold  distrust  that  heart  has  chill'd. 


LINES.  293 

Who  would  not  rather  pass  away 

From  earth,  like  some  sweet  summer  flow'r, 
When  the  soft  murmuring  zephyrs  play, 

Than  live  till  wintry  tempests  lower  ? 

We  trust  thy  sins  have  been  forgiv'n  ; 

Thy  soul  made  pure  from  guilt's  dark  stain ; 
And  that  a  ransom'd  soul  in  heav'n, 

Thou  'It  raise  to  God  the  angelic  strain. 

Then  let  no  murmuring  thought  arise, 

Though  lonely  oft  my  path  may  be, 
And  bitter  tears  oft  dim  my  eyes, 

Unbidden,  at  the  thought  of  thee. 

Still  the  sweet  memory  of  thy  love, 
Has  power  to  sooth  my  aching  heart ; 

Even  as  crush'd  and  wither'd  flow'rs, 
A  lasting  fragrance  oft  impart. 


TO   A    FRIEND, 


TO    A    FRIEND. 


DEAR  girl,  thine  eye  is  clear  and  bright, 
Fill'd  with  a  glad  and  joyous  light ; 
And  thy  young  brow  is  pure  and  fair, 
As  thou  hadst  never  known  a  care. 

Full  oft,  I  gaze  upon  thy  face. 
Where  dwells  a  sweet  and  quiet  grace  ; 
And  wonder  what  thy  fate  may  be, 
Upon  life's  dark  and  dangerous  sea. 

Ah,  many  a  rude,  tempestous  gale, 
Perchance,  may  rend  thy  little  sail, 
Ere  thou  wilt  reach  that  blissful  shore, 
Where  loving  friends  have  gone  before. 

Even  now,  sweet  girl,  young  as  thou  art, 
Sorrow  hath  touched  thy  loving  heart, 
And  clouds  have  dimmed  thy  sky,  so  fair, 
And  left  a  shadow  resting  there. 

Thou'st  lost  a  mother,  kind  and  dear, 
No  more  her  sweet  voice  greets  thine  ear— 
In  winning  tones,  that  could  impart 
Gladness  and  joy  to  thy  young  heart. 

No  more  her  gentle  hand  is  laid 
In  loving  kindness  on  thy  head  ; — 
No  more  her  soft  eyes  rest  on  thee, 
Fill'd  with  a  tender  sympathy. 


TO    A    FRIEND. 

Oft  -will  the  world  seem  cold  the  while, 
Without  her  sweet,  approving  smile  ; 
Oft  will  thy  heart  be  sad  and  weary, 
With  no  fond  mother's  voice  to  cheer  thee. 

Thy  loved  and  honored  father,  too, — 
Thy  faithful  guardian,  kind  and  true, 
Whose  stronger  arm  could  shield  thy  form, 
And  guard  it  from  the  impending  storm  ; — 

Who  loved  to  watch  thine  infant  glee, 
And  shared  thy  childish  sports  with  thee, — 
He,  too,  from  earthly  scenes  lias  fled, 
And  joined  the  numbers  of  the  dead. 

Brothers  and  sisters,  a  happy  band, 
Await  thee  in  the  spirit  land  ; 
Brigh  amaranthine  crowns  they  wear  ; 
They  long  to  greet  their  Ella  there. 

Prepare  thee  for  that  better  land, — 
Prepare  to  stand  at  God's  right  hand  ; 
Soon  may  the  fatal  summons  come, 
To  call  thy  waiting  spirit  home. 

Oh,  then  slight  not  the  Saviour's  call, — 
Into  the  arms  of  Jesus  fall ; 
Sweetly  resign  to  him  thy  soul, 
Yield  all  thy  powers  to  his  control- 


HAPPINESS, 


APPINE  SS 


SAY,  what  is  Happiness  ? — a  gem 
That  glitters  in  the  diadem 

That  decks  the  monarch's  brow? 
Or  does  this  gem,  of  form  divine, 
Gild  fortune's  gay  and  jewell'd  shrine,. 

Where  heartless  flatterers  bow  ? 

Or  dwells  it  in  the  sparkling  eye, — 
Or  hides  it  'neath  the  witchery 

Of  beauty's  loveliness  ? 
Or  comes  it  with  refreshing  power, 
Like  dewdrops  to  the  fainting  flower,. 

The  miser's  heart  to  bless  ? 

No,  seek  it  not  in  Monarchs'  hall, 
Nor  yet  beneath  the  glittering  pall, 

That  hides  Ambition's  fane  ; 
Nor  yet  with  Beauty  does  it  dwell  : 
It  is  not  charm' d  by  magic  spell, 

Nor  bound  by  golden  chain, 

But  they  whose  hearts  with  love  are  fill'd, 
"Whose  words  like  heav'nly  dew  distill'd,"1 

Are  ever  just  and  kind  ; 
Who  seek  God's  favor  to  obtain, 
Rather  than  praise  of  man  to  gain, 

This  gem  will  surely  find. 


A    PICTURE    OF   HUMAN    LIFE. 


A  PICTURE  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 


IT  was  morning.  Rosy  fingered  Aurora  lifted 
the  gorgeous  curtains  of  the  east,  and  unlocked 
the  golden  gates  of  light,  ushering  in  the  young 
king  of  day.  The  glad  earth,  bathed  with  the 
dews  of  night,  and  redolent  with  flowers,  lay 
blushing  and  rejoicing  beneath  his  radiant  beams, 
and  blooming  nature  strode  forth,  clad  in  his  most 
beautiful  garments,  while  the  murmurs  of  the 
waterfall,  the  sigh  of  the  breeze,  the% carol  of  the 
birds,  and  the  hum  of  busy  life — all  fell  upon  the 
ear,  making  enchanting  melody  —  music  that 
touched  the  soul. 

Cradled  in  its  downy  bed,  beneath  a  window 
closely  curtained,  to  obstruct  the  light,  lay  a  sleep 
ing  infant,  whose  dawn  of  life  had  just  begun. 
Its  very  helplessness  demanded  our  love  and  pity. 
It  smiled  and  wept,  but  knew  not  why ;  but  suc 
ceeding  days  added  strength  and  vigor  to.  his  frame, 
and  he  came  forth  in  all  the  sportiveness  and  beau 
ty  of  infant  loveliness. 

It  was  noon  ;  the  sun  had  gained  his  zenith  in 
the  heavens,  and  shed  down  his  scorching  rays 
5M 


298  A   PICTURE   OF   HUMAN   LIFE. 

upon  the  parched  earth,  that  lay  drooping  beneath 
his  noon-day  beams.  Scarce  a  leaf  was  seen  to 
move,  the  birds  sat  silent  with  folded  wing,  in  the 
leafy  branches,  the  flowers  hung  fainting  upon 
their  stems,  and  nature  shrank  from  the  oppressive 
heat. 

The  cradled  infant  had  passed  from  infancy  to 
childhood,  from  childhood  to  youth,  from  youth 
to  manhood,  through  the  various  changes  that 
mark  each  successive  period,  and  he  now  stood  in 
the  meridian  of  life, 

"  With  all  his  blushing  honors  thick  upon  him." 

His  brow  was  marked  by  care  and  anxiety,  and 
he  seemed  ambitious  to  win  a  name.  "  Fear  first 
assailed  the  child,  and  he  trembled  and  screamed ; 
but  at  a  frown,  with  youth  came  love,  torturing 
the  hapless  bosom,  where  fierce  flames  of  rage,  re 
sentment,  jealousy  contend.  Disturbed  ambition 
presented  next,  to  bid  him  grasp  the  moon  and 
waste  his  days  in  angry  sighs,  add  deep  rivalry  for 
shadows,  till  to  conclude  the  wretched  catalogue, 
appears  pale  avarice,  straining  delusive  counters 
to  his  breast,  e'en  in  the  hour  of  death."  Such 
are  human  passions. 

It  was  evening  ;  the  curtains  of  the  west  were 
tinged  with  the  varied  dyes  of  sunset,  and  nature 
seemed  revived  by  the  cool,  fresh  evening  breeze, 
and  smiled  complacently  beneath  the  sun's  last 
ray.  The  full  orbed  moon  arose  in  the  east,  and 
the  crystal  streams  reflected  myriads  of  diamonds 
beneath  her  silver  beams,  and  the  stars,  those 
6M 


A    PICTURE    OF    HUMAN    LIFE.  299 

golden  lamps  of  night,  shone  bright  in  the  blue 
chambers  of  the  sky.  An  aged  man  was  leaning 
on  his  staff,  the  vigor  of  life  had  departed,  His 
locks  were  thin  and  scattered,  his  palsied  limbs 
would  scarce  perform  their  office.  His  eye  was 
dim — no  longer  beaming  with  intelligence,  and  he 
muttered  to  himself,  as  he  groped  his  way  along, 
worn  out  with  the  cares,  sorrows  and  perplexities 
of  a  busy  life,  deep  furrows  were  upon  his  cheeks, 
and  his  whole  appearance  bespoke  a  weary,  way 
worn  child  of  earth.  He  took  his  solitary  way, 
down  a  retired  path,  thickly  shaded  with  fir,  holly 
and  yew,  through  whose  thick  foliage  the  strug 
gling  moonbeam  scarce  could  penetrate,  and  the 
air  was  filled  with  humid  vapors,  gloomy  silence 
as  of  the  tomb  reigned  around,  but  exhausted  na 
ture  sank,  and  the  aged  man  pillowed  his  head 
upon  the  bosom  of  earth,  and  closed  his  weary 
eyes  to  rest,  for  he  was  a  homeless  wanderer. 

It  was  deep,  solemn  midnight;  a  dense  cloud 
had  obscured  the  sky,  and  hid  the  refulgent  light 
of  the  moon  ;  the  wind  howled  in  fitful  murmurs, 
the  thunder  rolled  in  the  distance,  lightnings 
glared,  and  nature  wrapped  herself  in  the  sable 
shroud  of  midnight,  and  seemed  shrieking  a  death- 
wail  in  her  many  voices. 

Beside  the  gray  haired  man  stood  a  pale  visi 
tant  from  the  spirit  land,  to  summons  him  away ; 
he  laid  his  icy  hand  upon  his  waning  pulse,  and 
chilled  the  current  of  his  struggling  breath.  No 
friend  was  nigh,  but  his  spirit  passed  gently  away, 
leaving  his  countenance  placid  and  serene  in  death. 

Such  is  the  end  of  human  life.     A  little  mound 


300  A    PICTURE   OF  HUMAN   LIFE. 

of  heaped  up  earth  marks  the  spot,  where  the 
weary  pilgrim  is  at  rest.  All  who  tread  in  the 
path  way  of  life,  must  lie  down  too,  "  with  the 
pale  nations  of  the  dead,"  mingle  with  common 
dust,  and  become  the  sport  of  the  winds. 


FLOWERS. 


FLOWERS. 


FLOWERS  are  emblems  of  our  youth, 
Emblems  of  innocence  and  truth, 
For  though  their  freshness  must  decay, 
Their  fragrance  will  not  pass  away. 
So,  youthful  beauty  soon  must  fail ; 
The  eye  grow  dim,  the  cheek  grow  pale  ; 
The  brow  that  now  is  pure  and  fair, 
May  soon  be  shaded  o'er  by  care. 

But  if  within  the  trusting  heart 

Goodness  and  innocence  have  part ; 

If  we  God's  holy  law  fulfil, 

And  bow  submissive  to  hia  will, 

Then  shall  the  heart,  like  some  sweet  flow'r, 

That's  lightly  pluck'd  from  beauty's  bow'r, 

And  rudely  crush'd  beneath  the  feet, 

Yield  fragrance  far  more  pure  and  sweet 

Than  when  in  sunshine  and  the  dew, 

A  fair  and  beauteous  flow'r  it  grew, 


THE    OLD    CASTLE. 


THE    OLD    CASTLE. 


IN  olden  times,  so  legends  toll, 
In  lordly  castle  there  did  dwell 
A  lady  fair,  of  noble  birth, 
Of  beauty  rare  and  matchless  worth. 

And  she  was  flattered  and  caressed, — 
The  poor  her  generous  bounty  blessed  ; 
Princes  and  lords,  a  gorgeous  crowd, 
Before  her  peerless  beauty  bow'd. 

Lady  and  courtiers  passed  away, 
This  ivyed  tower,  these  ruins  gray 
Are  all  that's  left  to  tell  the  stcry, 
Of  grandeur,  pomp,  and  former  glory. 

Thus,  Time  moves  on,  with  ceaseless  tread. 
Still  adding  to  the  silent  dead  ; 
Nor  power,  nor  splendor  can  withstand 
The  touch  of  its  effacing  hand. 


THE   MYRTLE 


THE    MYRTLE. 


THIS  Myrtle  wreath  will  never  fade, 

In  sunshine  or  in  gloom, 
When  wintry  storms  sweep  o'er  the  glade, 

Its  flow'rs  will  brighter  bloom. 
So  Virtue's  lamp  will  brighter  be, 

'Mid  storms  of  dark  adversity. 


DEATH. 


DEATH 


THOU  pale  visitant  of  the  spirit  land,  why  dost 
thou  hover  ever  round  the  shades  of  time,  and 
ever  ply  thy  bark  on  yonder  sluggish  stream, 
whose  oozy  waters  bear  thee  on  its  bosom  ?  Why 
dost  thou  ever  bear  away  a  victim  that  returns  not 
with  thee  ?  As  we  look  for  thy  returning  bark 
"  through  the  vista,  long  and  dark  it  comes  with 
thee  alone."  Thou  mysterious  messenger,  where 
dost  bear  those  whom  thou  dost  convey  away  ? — 
but  hark  !  that  voice  !  husky,  hollow,  but  impres 
sive,  the  spirit  shall  return  unto  Grod  who  gave  it. 
But  now  I  see  thee  more  distinctly,  thou  grisly 
monster ;  I  know  thy  form,  thou  conqueror  of 
conquerors,  and  thou  king  of  kings.  But  yester 
day  I  saw  a  smiling  infant  in  its  fond  mother's 
arms  ;  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles  played  around 
its  beautiful  features,  and  its  eyes  beamed  with 
brilliancy  ;  thou  didst  approach,  and  lay  thy  icy 
hand  upon  its  fluttering  pulses,  and  all  was  still. 
The  parted  lips  had  closed  with  the  passing  smile 
yet  upon  them,  the  eye  had  ceased  to  roll,  that  little 
form  was  cold  and  motionless  as  the  clods  of  the  val 
ley,  life  had  ebbed  away,  the  mysterious  link  that 


DEATH.  305 

bound  the  soul  to  the  body  was  broken  ;  the  spirit 
had  departed  ;  many  witnessed  the  expiring  strug 
gle,  but  none  saw  the  spirit  as  it  took  its  flight 
from  its  clay  tenement ;  yet  it  had  gone  with  thee 
over  yon  dark  stream. 

Again  I  entered  the  chamber  where  a  father  lay, 
upon  whom  a  numerous  family  were  dependant. 
Thou  wast  there  ;  thy  icy  breath  was  upon  him  ; 
thy  agonizing  throes  were  depicted  on  his  pallid 
countenance ;  his  expansive  chest  heaved  labori 
ously  ;  his  shortening  breath  came  up  convulsive 
ly,  and  his  eyes  seemed  starting  from  their  sockets. 
He  had  been  called  suddenly — unexpectedly  to 
meet  thee.  A  tearful  wife  and  children  gathered 
around  the  bed,  formed  an  interesting  group,  and 
strove  in  vain  to  allay  the  agony  of  the  husband 
and  father.  But  a  sterner  blow,  and  that  wife 
was  a  widow,  those  children  fatherless.  Thou 
hadst  taken  that  father  to  "  that  undiscovered 
country  from  whose  bourne  no  traveler  e'er  re 
turns."  That  weeping  wife  and  those  children 
"  were  cast  abandoned  on  the  world's  wide  stage, 
doomed  in  scanty  poverty  to  roam.  But  still  I 
followed  thee,  thou  fell  destroyer  of  the  human 
race,  determined  to  portray  thy  doings. 

A  gentle  mother  next  received  thy  visitation, 
falling  a  prey  to  thy  relentless  hand.  Five  darl 
ing  children  shared  her  maternal  love,  as  day  by 
day  she  ministered  to  their  necessities.  The  rose 
had  long  since  faded  from  her  cheek ;  an  unwont 
ed  lustre  lit  up  her  eye,  and  her  step  became  more 
and  more  feeble,  'till  thou  didst  summon  her  away, 
leaving  a  void  in  the  hearts  of  those  children  that 


306  DEATH. 

can  never  be  filled.  Sad,  sickening  was  the  sight 
as  I  followed  in  thy  train,  and  saw  father,  mother, 
sister,  brother,  and  all  the  endearing  relations  of 
life,  fall  before  thy  sway.  But  thou  art  coeval 
with  the  race  ;  there  lives  not  a  man  who  will  not 
bow  before  thy  sceptre  ;  all  must  drink  from  thy 
cup.  The  crowned  monarch  and  the  beggar  sleep 
side  by  side,  and  their  mingled  dust  is  the  sport 
of  the  winds  of  the  heavens.  Then  may  we 

"  So  live,  that  when  our  summons  comes  to  joia 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  the  pale  realms  of  shade,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chambers  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
We  go  not  like  the  quarry  slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon  ;  but  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  our  graves 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 


THE   HOME   OF    CHILDHOOD. 


THE  HOME  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


HOME  of  my  childhood,  once  again, 

With  fond  delight,  I  turn  to  thee  ; 
Here,  in  this  green  and  silent  glen, 

I'll  sit  beneath  the  o'ershadowing  tree  ; 
While  memory,  with  its  magic  power, 

Summons  to  my  enraptured  mind, 
Scenes,  which,  till  this  mysterious  hour, 

Had  been  to  Lethean  waves  consign'd. 

Sweet  visions  rise  before  my  gaze, 

All  dim  and  meagre,  like  ruins  old ; 
Which  seen  benpath  the  moon's  pale  rays. 

Scarce  can  their  real  form  be  told. 
Yet,  beautiful  and  fair  they  seem, — 

Those  shadowy  visions  of  the  past ; 
And  to  my  soul  they  bring  a  dream 

Of  happines,  too  bright  to  last. 

Soft  eyes  are  gazing  on  my  own, — 

Sweet  voices  fall  upon  my  ear, — 
I  feel  that  I  am  not  alone, 

For  spirits  of  the  loved  are  near  ; 
And  joyfully  my  ?oul  goes  forth, 

Mingling  with  theirs  in  blissful  love, 
Linked  in  the  bonds  of  union  sweet — 

Through  the  past  scenes  of  life  we  rove- 

And  once  again,  they  spring  to  life, — 
The  hopes  and  joys  of  other  years  ; 

Fresh  as  before  the  world's  rude  strife 
Had  changed  their  fount  to  bitter  tears, 


308  THE    HOME    OF    CHILDHOOD. 

Smiles,  looks  and  words  that  long  had  beom 
Erased  from  memory's  tablet  leaves, 

Come  thronging  o'er  my  soul  again, 

Bright  as  the  spell  which  Fancy  weaves. 

Oh,  could  the  dream  forever  last,  — 
Could  those  loved  forms  forever  stay  ; 

But  no,  e'en  now  the  visions  past,  — 
Like  rainbow  hues  they  fade  away. 

And  I  am  left  to  muse  alone, 

As  one  by  one,  those  forms  depart  : 

The  cHll  wind  blows  with  hollow  moan, 
sadness  broodeth  o'er  my  heart. 


Well,  I  must  nerve  my  spirit  up, 

To  meet  life's  trials,  stern  and  dark  ; 
I'll  shrink  not  from  the  bitter  cup, 

For  fear,  though  storms  assail  my  bark. 
But  I  will  trust  in  him,  whose  power 

Curbs  the  proud  billows  in  their  might. 
Whose  presence  cheers  the  darkest  hour, 

And  guides  the  wanderer's  bark  aright. 


THE    HAPPY   LAND, 


THE    HAPPY    LAND 


THERE  is  a  land  beyond  the  sky, 
Where  all  is  fair  and  bright, 

No  tear  there  dims  the  sparkling  eye, 
No  cloud  obscures  the  light. 

There,  in  those  bright  elysian  fields, 
Bloom  flow'rs  that  never  fade  ; 

And  seraphs  tune  their  golden  harps, 
lu  spotless  robes  arrayed. 


DEVOTION. 


DEVOTION. 


TEMPTED,  my  cottage  home  to  leave, 
1  wandered  forth  one  dewy  eve, 

When  all  was  hushed  and  still ; 
Save  the  low  music  of  the  breeze, 
That  murmur'd  through  the  leafy  trees, 

And  gushing  of  the  rill. 

An  unfrequented  path 'I  took, 
That  led  to  a  sequester'd  nook — 

That  'neath  the  moon's  pale  beams, 
Seemed  like  some  spirit-haunted  dell, 
Where  those  light,  airy  phantoms  dwell, 

That  visit  us  in  dreams. 

The  sweet  flowers,  bathed  in  pearly  dew, 
Half  veil'd  their  glowing  charms  from  view 

And  drooped  their  lowly  heads  ; 
While  out,  upon  the  evening  air, 
A  grateful  incense,  rich  and  rare, 

Stole  up  from  their  low  beds. 

The  green  trees  seemed  to  tower  on  high, 
And  mingle  with  the  deep  blue  sky ; 

While  in  the  moon's  soft  light, 
The  noiseless  shadows  came  and  went, 
Waver'd  and  glanced,  and  graceful  bent, 

Like  champions  in  fight. 

There  was  a  little,  fragrant  bower, 
That  nature,  in  some  sportive  hour* 
Had  gracefully  arrayed ; 


DEVOTION.  311 

And  overgrown  with  creeping  vines, 
Their  tendrils  with  the  green  bows  twined  •, 
Formed  an  imperious  shade. 

As  near  this  fairy  bower  I  drew, 
An  object  met  my  startled  view, 

Entrancing  all  my  powers ; 
A  fair  young  girl  was  kneeling  there, 
Her  white  hands  clasped  in  fervent  prayer, — 

Her  dark  hair  wreathed  with  flowers. 

Meekly  her  eyes  to  heav'u  were  turned, 
While  in  her  trusting  heart  there  burned 

The  fire  of  holy  love  ; 
So  fair,  so  heavenly,  looked  her  face* 
Less  seemed  she  one  of  mortal  race, 

Than  angel  from  above. 

It  was  a  lovely,  starry  night, 
And  softly  in  the  silver  light, 

Did  flickering  shadows  fall ; 
And  bright  the  flowers  that  blossomed  there  ; 
But  the  incense  of  that  maiden's  prayer, 

Was  purer,  far,  than  all. 

The  sweetest  sight  below  the  skies, — 
And  sweetest  in  holy  angels'  eyes, 

Is  the  young  heart,  when  given, 
With  all  its  hopes  and  fears, — 
Its  sunny  smiles  and  gushing  tears, 

An  offering  unto  Heaven. 


TO   A   FRIEND. 


TO    A    FKIEND. 


OH,  wherefore  ask  a  song  of  me  ; 

Romance  within  my  heart  is  dead  ; 
Hush'd  is  my  spirit's  minstrelsy, 

Youth's  golden  visions  all  have  fled. 

Life's  rainbow  hues  have  pass'd  away, 
With  clearer  vision  now  I  see  ; 

And  I  more  deeply  feel  each  day, 
That  life's  a  stern  reality. 

It  is  no  dream,  or  fairy  tale, 

Or  minstrel's  strain  of  music  rare  ; 

But  ever  foremost  in  its  train, 

Walk  duty  stern,  and  weary  care. 

We  may  not  linger  by  the  way, 
To  pluck  the  lily  or  the  rose, 

Too  soon  will  pass  the  summer  day, 
And  evening  shadows  round  us  close. 

Yet  there's  within  each  heart  a  chord 
That  vibrates  with  a  music  tone  ; 

Duty  performed  brings  its  reward, 
We  live  not  for  ourselves  alone. 

Life  has  a  higher,  nobler  aim, 
A  destiny  beyond  earth's  toys  ; 

A  richer  heritage  we  claim, 
A  title  to  celestial  joys. 


TO   A    FRIEND.  313 

Then  upward  look,  with  firm- resolve, 

Thy  spirit's  precious  plume  to  rise  ; 
What  though  thine  earthly  house  dissolve) 

Thou  hast  a  mansion  in  the  skies. 

IN 


LINES, 


LINES, 


WRITTEN   UPON   THE    DEATH   OF   TWO    SISTERS, 


WHAT  heav'nly  music  greets  mine  ear  ! 
What  seraph's  voice  is  that  I  hear, 
Breathing  in  numbers  soft  and  low  ? 
Methinks  th'  angelic  strains  I  know. 

Dearest  sister,  come  away, 

There's  nought  on  earth  that's  worth  thy  stay 

Then,  sister,  linger  not,  but  haste 

The  joys  of  paradise  to  taste. 

The  songs  of  praise  we  utter  here, 
Have  ne'er  been  heard  by  mortal  ear ; 
Nor  mortal  eye  hath  ever  seen 
"  The  fields  array'd  in  living  green." 

The  gates  of  precious  stone  unfold, 
The  streets  are  paved  with  shining  gold  ; 
Pure  crystal  streams  of  water  flow, 
And  trees  of  fadeless  verdure  grow. 

There  is  no  sighing  here,  nor  tears, 
No  guilty  thoughts,  no  doubts  or  fears  ; 
But  love  is  pure  and  never  diesy 
And  songs  of  endless  praise  arise. 

Then  sister,  linger  not,  but  comer 
Angels  await  to  guard  thee  home ; 
Here,  in  the  mansions  of  the  blest, 
Here  shall  thy  weary  soul  find  rest. 


LINES*  315 

Sister,  I  come,  thy  cheering  voice 
Bids  my  whole  heart  and  soul  rejoice ; 
Fain  would  my  ling'ring  spirit  rise 
On  wings  of  Faith  beyond  the  skies. 

I  linger  but  a  little  space, 
To  gaze  upon  my  husband's  face  ; 
My  gentle  infant's  lips  to  press, 
And  fold  my  first  born  to  my  breast. 

My  mother's  voice  once  more  to  hear, — • 
Once  more  to  see  a  brother  dear, 
A  sister's  parting  kiss  receive, — 
Then,  dearest  sister,  I  will  leave. 

E'en  now  my  clouded  senses  feel 
A  heav'nly  transport  o'er  them  steal ; 
My  sight  grows  dim,  thick  comes  my  breath  ; 
Sister,  I  come,  for  this  is  death. 
2N 


TO   1- 


TO    I- 


MY  long  neglected  lyre  I'll  take, 
And  seek  its  echoes  to  awake  ; 
But  it  hath  lain  untuned  so  long, 
Scarce  can  I  hope  to  frame  a  song. 

Yet,  when  I  sweep  the  trembling  strings, 
A  low  sad  wail  of  music  rings  ; 
Encouraged  by  that  gentle  strain, 
I'll  touch  the  silken  cords  again. 

I  wish  thee  happiness,  my  friend, — 
Such  as  on  virtue  doth  attend  ; 
And  pray  that  grief's  dark  funeral  pall 
May  ne'er  upon  thy  young  heiirt  fall. 

0  may  an  interest  in  Christ's  blood, — 
Thy  soul,  bathed  in  that  crimsom  flood, 
Shall  be  from  guilt's  dark  stain  set  free , 
Thy  sins  no  more  imputed  thee. 

1  wish  a  friend,  faithful  and  kind, 
Noble,  sincere,  pure  and  refined, 
Whose  sympathy  with  thine  shall  blend, 
And  to  life's  duties  sweetness  lend. 

Loving  and  loved,  thy  bark  shall  glide 
Smoothly  along  life's  rapid  tide, 
Until  'tis  launched  upon  the  sea 
Of  infinite  eternity. 


LINES 


LINES, 

WRITTEN    FOR   A  FRIEND    UPON   THE    20TII    ANNIVERSARY 


OF  HER   BIRTHDAY. 


WOULD  some  kind  Muse  my  heart  inspire, 
With  the  poetic  heaven-born  fire, 
That  did  in  olden  times  belong 
To  gifted  bards,  of  ancient  song, 

Then  could  I  wake  a  thrilling  strain 
That  would  with  mystic  power  enchain, 
But  now,  alas  !  my  untaught  lyre 
Can  to  no  lofty  themes  aspire. 

How  many  scenes  of  joy  and  grief, 
Trac'd  o'er  life's  ever-varying  leaf, 
Have  pass'd  since  first  thy  mother  smiled 
On  thee,  a  little  helpless  child. 

Though  few  thy  years  on  earth  have  been, 
In  the  past  view,  dark  clouds  are  seen  ; 
The  cup  prepared  for  thee  to  drain, 
Has  not  been  all  unmix' d  with  pain. 

The  future  now  before  thee  lies, 

Still  unreveal'd  to  human  eyes ; 

But  to  imagination's  view, 

Bright  visions  gleam  the  vista  through. 

3x 


318  LINES. 

The  future,  who  would  dare  to  look 
Into  that  still  unopened  book  ? 
What  mortal  would  presume  to  read 
The  hidden  mysteries  there  decreed. 

Oh,  Ellen,  let  it  be  thy  prayer, 
What  e'er  of  ill  is  written  there, 
That  thou  may'st  ever   bear  thy  part, 
With  humble  and  submissive  heart. 

But  if  its  pages  should  unfold 
Thy  destiny,  inscribed  in  gold, 
If  radiant  joy,  with  pinions  bright, 
Should  round  thy  path  shed  rosy  light, 

Oh,  then  forget  not  those  whom  God 
Has  chasten'd  with  a  heavy  rod, 
Let  the  poor  stricken  mourner  find 
In  thee,.  a  friend  sincere  and  kind. 

And  when  old  Time,  with  sly  embrace, 
Steals  the  bright  rose-tint  from  thy  face, 
Still  keep  thy  heart  in  love  and  truth, 
Guileless  as  in  thy  early  youth. 

As  you  review  each  closing  year, 
May  no  grim  phantoms  there  appear 
Casting  dark  shadows  in  the  scene, 
Thy  view  and  happiness  between. 

But  in  their  stead  may  sweet  content, 
A  consciousness  of  life  well  spent, — 
A  trusting  heart  to  thee  be  given, 
And  last  of  all  a  crown  in  heav'n. 


HUMAN    THOUGHT. 


HUMAN    THOUGHT. 


OH,  how  deep  and  unfathomable  is  human 
thought.  It  descends  into  the  lowest  depths  of 
the  ocean,  and  into  the  mines,  caverns  and  inmost 
recesses  of  the  earth,  or  is  borne  aloft  upon  the 
soaring  pinions  of  imagination,  to  the  vaulted, 
star-lit  sky  above  our  heads ;  we  can  trace  the 
azure  canopy,  and  wander  from  star  to  star,  or 
contemplate  the  silvery  moon,  in  all  her  full-orbed 
glory,  or  trace  the  golden  sun,  as  he  runs  his  jour 
ney  through  the  heavens,  and  hides  behind  the 
crimson  curtains  of  the  west,  in  majestic  splen 
dor.  And  though  the  body  be  confined  to  the 
restless,  feverish  couch  of  pain,  thought  flies  un 
trammelled  through  the  circuit  of  the  globe,  far — 
far  to  the  frigid  regions  of  the  north,  where  almost 
eternal  winter  reigns,  and  we  view  the  hardy  in 
habitant  of  that  sterile  clime,  wrapped  in  his  furs, 
drawn  by  the  swift-footed  reindeer,  across  the 
barren  glebe. 

But,  sudden  as  the  lightning's  flash,  thought 
wings  us  across  intervening  space,  to  the  sultry, 

arid  plains  of  India,  where  seated  upon  tHe 

4N 


320  HUMAN   THOUGHT. 

elephant,  the  inhabitants  screen  themselves  from 
the  burning  rays  of  the  vertical  sun,  and  all  nature 
seems  fainting  beneath  the  oppressive  heat ;  there 
the  deluded  mother  tosses  her  struggling  infant 
into  the  serpentine  Ganges,  and  bowing  before  her 
idol,  thinks  she  has  appeased  her  God  ;  we  at  a 
glance  visit  Afric's  billowy  strand,  her  vast  sandy 
deserts,  spotted  here  and  there  with  an  oasis, 
where  the  toil-worn  traveller  stops  to  refresh  him 
self;  and  then  turning  to  America — our  own  hap 
py  America,  the  land  of  freedom,  we  there  see 
thousands  of  Afric's  sabie  sons  groaning  beneath 
the  galling  bondage  of  slavery. 

But  after  thought  thus  visits  every  portion  of 
the  globe,  and  sits  down  to  contemplate  what  is 
the  conclusion  of  the  whole  matter,  is  not  "pass 
ing  away"  legibly  written  upon  the  whole  earth, 
and  upon  each  succeeding  generation  of  man,  for 
"  one  generation  passeth  away  and  another  gener 
ation  cometh,"  and  death  conquers  all.  Happy 
are  they,  whose  thoughts,  enriched  by  the  promi 
ses  of  the  gospel,  "can  soar  beyond  the  narrow 
bounds  of  time,  and  fix  their  hopes  of  happiness 
on  heaven." 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   ON   THE    DEPARTURE    OF   A   BROTHER. 


DEAR  brother,  is  it  even  so  ? 

And  are  we  doomed  to  part  ? — 
We  who  have  been  through  weal  and  woe 

United,  hand  and  heart. 

Ah,  would  that  I  could  share  thy  fate, 

Upon  Life's  stormy  sea; 
I'd  deem  no  sacrifice  too  great, 

That  I  might  make  for  thee. 

But  no,  it  may  not — cannqt  be,^r 

The  world  before  thee  lies  ; 
And  fairer  lands  are  spread  for  thee, 

Beneath  more  genial  skies. 

There's  many  a  spot,  of  which  we're  told, 

In  legend  and  romance. 
Where  plumed  knights  were  wont  of  old 

To  meet  with  sword  and  lance. 

And  there's  a  charm  that  lingers  round 
Each  ruined  tower  and  shrine  ; — 

Full  well  I  know  its  magic  power, 
On  such  a  heart  as  thine. 

Then  go ;  I  would  not  seek  to  chair* 

Thy  spirit  bold  and  free  ; 
Although  I  feel  when  thou  art  gone? 

How  lonely  I  shall  be. 

5N 


322  LINES. 

I  know  thec  noble  ;  have  I  not 
From  childhood's  earliest  hour 

Witnessed  thy  spirit's  mastery 
O'er  dark  temptation's  power. 

Go,  and  ambition's  heights  explore, — 
Seek  Honor,  Wealth  and  Fame  ; 

But  prize  than  gold  or  jewels  more 
A  pure,  untarnished  name. 

But  when  far  o'er  the  deep  blue  sea, 

In  other  lands  you  roam, 
Forget  not  those  who  prayed  with  thee, 

In  thy  sunny  childhood's  home. 

Forget  not,  when  you  mingle  with 

The  beautiful  and  gay, 
And  yield  your  heart  to  pleasure's  charms, 

A  sister  far  away. 

Though  rosy  lips  may  on  you  smile, 
And  bright  eyes  turn  to  thine, 

Dear  brother,  thou  wilt  never  find 
One  truer  heart  than  mine. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

ON  THE    DEATH   OF   A   FRIEND. 


MOURNFULLY,  tearfully,  twine  we  a  wreath, 

To  the  memory  of  one  who  sleeps  with  the  dead  ; 

Calmly  she  slumbers  the  cold  sod  beneath, 
While  the  wind  chants  a  requiem  over  her  bed. 

Early  she  drank  of  the  fountain  of  sorrow. 

Cold  press'd  the  hand  of  grief  on  her  heart ; 
No  glean;  from  the  sunshine  of  hope  could  she  borrow, 

In  earthly  enjoyments  her  soul  had  no  part. 

She  pass'd  from  the  earth  like  a  beautiful  vision  ; 

Pale  grew  her  cheek,  and  sunken  her  eye, 
Yet  her  spirit  evinc'd  a  noble  decision, 

Still  strong  in  affection  and  fearless  to  die. 

Her  husband  and  child  had  pass'd  on  before  her, 
Through  the  dark  valley  and  shadow  of  death  ; 

Her  Saviour,  she  hop'd,  to  their  love  would  restore  her, 
Then  she  fear'd  not  the  summons  to  yield  up  her  breath. 

To  rest  near  the  spot  where  those  lov'd  ones  were  sleeping, 
Was  the  last  earthly  wish  of  her  desolate  heart ; 

And  she  pray'd  whilst  disease  to  her  vitals  was  creeping. 
That  God  would  his  grace  and  protection  impart. 

The  tears  of  fond  sisters,  the  love  of  a  brother, 

From  that  hallow' d  spot  could  not  tempt  her  to  stay; 

Though  dear  to  her  heart,  the  love  of  another 
Still  o'er  her  spirit  held  mightier  sway. 
6N 


324  LINES. 

She  left  the  dear  spot  of  her  childhood's  affection, 
For  her  own  belov'd  home  in  the  far  distant  west ; 

Her  fond  heart  still  clung  to  the  sweet  recollection 
Of  hours  she  had  pass'd  there,  contented  and  bless'd. 

But  now  all  her  trials  and  sorrows  are  ended, 

Clos'd  are  her  eyes  in  "  death's  dreamless  sleep  ;" 

Her  spirit,  we  trust,  has  to  glory  ascended, 

Hope  whispers  sweet  peace  while  in  sadness  we  weep. 


THE    POWER    OF    CUSTOM. 


THE    POWER   OF    CUSTOM. 


CUSTOM  is  a  despotic  tyrant,  wielding  an  iron 
sceptre  over  man,  before  whose  unbounded  sway 
unnumbered  millions  hourly  bend.  We  are  con 
trolled  by  its  influence  from  earliest  infancy  to 
latest  age,  even  from  the  making  of  an  infant's 
frock  to  the  shroud.  In  early  youth  we  must  go 
to  this  school,  or  that  lecture,  or  to  that  resort  of 
fashionable  amusement,  because  others  go,  and  it 
is  the  custom. 

It  seems  strange  that  custom  should  hold  such 
a  dominion  over  us— we,  the  people  of  this  en 
lightened  age,  be  bound  to  such  a  tyrant !  it  seems 
almost  impossible,  but  so  it  is.  We  see  it  in  the 
professional  man,  the  man  of  business,  and  men  in 
all  grades  of  society,  and  from  the  lady  at  her  toi 
let  to  the  factory  operative.  We  must  have  our 
clothing  cut  after  such  a  style,  and  wear  it  after 
such  a  manner;  and  why  ?  O,  it  is  the  custom. 
It  is  too  much  the  custom  for  people  to  look  with 
contempt  upon  those  who  have  not  quite  so  good 
advantages,  or  more  especially,  those  who  have 


320  THE    POWER   OF    CUSTOM. 

not  so  much  wealth,  without  regard  to  intellect  or 
education. 

Custom  has  introduced  into  society  vices  of  all 
descriptions.  Not  long  since  it  was  the  custom  to 
pass  the  social  glass,  and  it  has  been  the  means  of 
making  a  great  many  inebriates,  and  making  beg 
gars  of  a  great  many  families ;  thus  we  see  the 
effects  of  that  custom.  The  custom  of  revelry, 
balls,  parties,  and  gay  assemblies,  tend  to  dsssipate. 
the  minds  of  youth,  and  lead  them  into  the  paths 
of  vice.  The  custom  of  card-playing  has  led  to  the 
gaming-table,  and  been  the  ruin  of  thousands. 

"  The  suns  of  riot  flow  down  the  loose  stream, 
Of  false  and  tainted  joy  on  the  rankled  soul, 
The  gaming  fury  falls,  till  in  one  gulf 
Of  total  ruin  ;  honor,  virtue,  peace, 
Friends,  families,  and  fortune 
Headloujr  sink." 


ANXIE    HOWARD. 


ANNIE     HOWARD. 


IT  was  a  chill,  dreary  day  in  November.  The 
autumn  winds  swept  with  a  dirge-like  sound 
through  the  tops  of  the  tall  old  trees  that  overshad 
owed  a  stately  mansion,  where  a  group  of  sorrow 
ing  friends  had  collected,  to  pay  the  last  sad  rite, 
to  one  of  earth's  fairest,  loveliest  flowers.  All 
without  wore  an  air  of  gloom  and  melancholy. 
Ever  and  anon  a  sere  and  yellow  leaf  would  fall 
with  a  faint  rustling  sound,  speaking  in  mournful 
language  to  the  heart,  that  all  things  earthly  must 
decay  ;  and  well  did  the  scene  accord  with  the 
sadness  arid  sorrow  that  reigned  in  the  hearts  of 
those  who  had  assembled  on  that  mournful  occa 
sion. 

The  deceased  was  one  whom  we  had  all  known 
and  loved,  for  she  was  one  of  those  sweet  angelic 
beings,  whom  it  is  impossible  not  to  love.  .Her 
presence,  like  sunshine,  seemed  to  diffuse  light  and 
cheerfullness  upon  all  who  came  within  the  magic 
circle  of  her  influence. 

Her  glad  laugh  fell  like  music  upon  the  ear. 
Her  large  dark  eyes  beamed  with  the  light  of  in- 


328  ANNIE   HOWARD. 

telligence  and  affection.  The  softest  rose  tint 
tinged  her  alabaster  cheek,  and  the  tones  of  her 
voice  were  like  the  melody  of  an  ^Eolian  harp, 
when  touched  by  the  wandering  zephyrs. 

But  youth,  beauty,  and  goodness  could  not 
shield  her  from  the  cruel  shafts  of  the  destroyer. 
The  hand  of  disease  fell  heavily  upon  her,  and  her 
fragile  form  sank  beneath  the  blow,  and  faded  like 
a  blighted  flower.  There  sat  her  parents  bowed 
down  by  grief,  for  the  being  whom  they  most 
loved  on  earth,  the  light  of  their  home,  the  joy, 
the  hope,  the  pride  of  their  hearts,  had  been  taken 
from  them,  and  they  were  indeed  left  desolate. 

One  ray  of  light  alone  illumined  the  darkness 
that  overshadowed  them  like  a  pall.  But  one  star 
shone  out  upon  the  dim  horizon  of  the  future,  the 
hope  of  being  reunited  with  their  beloved  child  in 
that  better  land,  where  tears  shall  be  wiped  from 
all  eyes — where  love  never  dies,  and  parting  scenes 
are  never  known. 

The  funeral  services  were  performed  in  a  solemn 
and  impressive  manner.  The  coffin  was  then 
opened,  and  one  by  one  we  approached  to  take  the 
last  fond  look  of  its  frail  tenant.  Oh,  could  it  be 
that  that  form,  so  cold  and  motionless,  clad  in  the 
white  habiliments  of  the  grave,  was  that  of  the 
once  lovely  and  fascinating  Annie  Howard  ?  Were 
those  lips  that  were  wont  to  entrance  with  their 
melody  forever  sealed  in  death?  Would  those 
eyes  never  again  beam  with  the  light  of  affection, 
or  kindle  with  the  glow  af  enthusiasm  ?  Oh,  how 
forcibly  were  we  reminded  that  "  passing  away" 
is  written  upon  all  things  here  below,  and  that 


ANNIE    HOWARD.  329 

the  fairest  forms  that  walk  the  earth,  in  all  the 
pride  of  beauty,  must  go  down  to  the  dark,  cold 
grave,  to  be  food  for  the  loathesome  worm.  With 
slow  and  faltering  steps,  and  with  tear-suffused 
eyes,  we  followed  the  remains  to  the  narrow  house, 
appointed  for  all  the  living ;  and  then  mournfully 
returned  to  our  homes,  to  muse  upon  the  uncer 
tainty,  and  the  perishable  nature  of  all  earthly 

joys- 
Annie  Howard  was  one  of  my  earliest  and  dear 
est  friends,  and  thinking  that,  perhaps,  her  history 
might  be  interesting  to  some  who  may  chance  to 
peruse  these  pages,  I  have  endeavored,  although 
but  imperfectly,  to  give  a  brief  sketch  of  her  life. 
She  was  the  only  child  of  wealthy  and  highly 
respectable  parents.  Possessed  of  refined  and  cul 
tivated  minds,  they  were  anxious  that  their  daugh 
ter  should  be  educated  in  all  the  more  solid 
branches,  which  would  render  her  a  useful  mem 
ber  of  society,  as  well  as.  the  lighter  graces  and 
accomplishments  which,  too  often,  in  the  present 
day,  supercede  the  cultivation  of  the  mind.  En 
dowed  with  a  brilliant  intellect,  she  excelled  in 
whatever  she  attempted,  and  the  fond  anticipa 
tions  of  her  friends  were  more  than  realized.  The 
acquirement  of  literature  was  to  her  a  source  of 
exquisite  delight.  Pier  thirsty  soul  drank  at  the 
fountain  of  knowledge,  with  as  much  avidity  as 
the  weary  traveller  slakes  his  thirst  at  the  foun 
tain  of  cool  waters,  that  bubbles  up  in  the  midst 
of  the  sandy  desert.  Her  inquiring  mind  was 
never  weary  of  exploring  the  deep  mysteries  of 
science  or  poring  over  the  pages  of  ancient  lore. 


330  ANNIE    HOWARD. 

Music,  painting  and  poetry  seemed  to  form  the 
etherial  essence  of  her  mind.  She  played  with 
exquisite  skill  and  taste,  and  sang  with  surpassing 
sweetness  and  melody. 

Her  brilliant  powers  of  mind,  the  beauty  of  her 
person,  her  graceful,  winning  manners,  the  sweet 
ness  of  her  disposition,  and  the  unaffected  good 
ness  of  her  heart,  rendered  her  a  universal  favorite 
in  the  circle  in  which  she  moved. 

Yet,  was  she  ever  modest  and  unassuming.  She 
was  far  from  that  vain  haughtiness  that  is  the 
common  characteristic  of  narrow  and  superficial 
minds,  and  which,  too  often,  displays  itself  in  per 
sons  of  cultivated  intellect,  where  there  is  not  a 
corresponding  goodness  of  heart.  It  seemed  to  be 
her  aim  to  render  those  with  whom  she  associated, 
pleased  with  themselves  rather  than  to  impress 
upon  them  a  sense  of  her  own  superiority.  This 
trait  in  her  character  had  in  it  nothing  allied  to 
sycophancy,  which  quickly  disgusts  persons  of 
sense  and  refinement ;  neither  did  it  originate 
merely  in  the  desire  to  please,  but  had  its  source 
in  an  inherent  principle  of  her  nature,  which 
prompted  her  to  seek  to  promote  the  happiness  of 
others. 

She  possessed  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  which,  together  with  her  extreme  delicacy, 
with  regard  to  the  feelings  of  others,  formed  the 
keystone  which  unlocked  to  her  the  secret  recesses 
of  hearts,  which,  to  a  less  careless  observer,  would 
have  been  veiled  in  impenetrable  coldness  and 
reserve. 

In  early  life  she  had  given  her  heart  to  the  Sa- 


ANNIE    HOWARD.  331 

viour,  and  had  consecrated  herself  to  the  service 
of  God  ;  and  she  sought  to  follow  the  example  of 
the  meek  and  lowly  Jesus. 

The  poor,  the  sick,  and  the  sorrowful,  were  ob 
jects  of  her  peculiar  care  and  attention.  Many  a 
poor,  crushed  and  broken-hearted  being,  borne 
down  by  poverty  and  affliction,  was  made  glad  by 
her  sympathy  and  kindness.  She  possessed  that 
sweet,  graceful  way  of  offering  a  benefit  which 
rendered  a  favor  from  her  doubly  acceptable. 
Among  the  gentlemen  of  her  acquaintance,  there 
were  many  who,  fascinated  by  the  charms  both  of 
her  mind  and  person,  sought  to  win  her  heart, 
but  of  all  her  numerous  admirers,  there  was  but 
one  whose  affection  was  reciprocated,  and  that 
one  was  well  worthy  the  love  and  confidence  of 
such  a  being  as  Annie  Howard.  He  possessed 
those  noble  qualities  of  heart  and  mind  which 
command  the  admiration  of  the  great  and  good, 
and  which  render  man,  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
term,  the  noblest  work  of  God.  Gifted  with 
strong  powers  of  mind,  which  had  been  disciplined 
by  a  thorough  education,  possessing  principles  of 
the  strictest  integrity,  and  an  elegant  and  prepos 
sessing  exterior,  he  was  beloved  and  esteemed  by 
all  who  knew  him.  He  was  a  physician,  and  had  the 
reputation  of  being  a  skilful  practitioner.  He  had 
resided  in  the  same  village  with  Annie  some  two 
or  three  years,  and  being  of  congenial  dispositions, 
and  thrown  much  into  each  others'  society,  a 
strong  attachment  had  sprung  up  between  them, 
which  was  sanctioned  by  the  friends  of  both  par 
ties. 


332  ANNIE    HOWARD. 

But  brilliant  intellect,  beauty  of  person,  sweet 
ness  of  disposition,  goodness  of  heart,  nor  love  of 
friends  could  save  her  from  death's  relentless  dart. 
In  her  case,  the  words  of  the  poet  Wordsworth 
were  verrified, 

"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket." 

Ere  nineteen  summers  had  passed  over  her  head, 
consumption  had  fastened  upon  her  vitals.  At 
first  the  symptoms  were  so  slight  that  her  friends 
felt  little  alarm,  but  soon  the  hollow  cough,  which 
sounds  so  much  like  a  funeral  knell,  the  unnatural 
brilliancy  of  the  eye,  the  hectic  glow  upon  the 
cheek,  and  the  short,  labored  breathing,  told  but 
too  plainly  that  death  was  not  to  be  cheated  of 
his  prey.  It  has  been  said  that  death  loves  a 
shining  mark,  and  it  is  true  that  ho  often  passes 
by  the  loathsome  form,  shriveled  by  age,  and 
want,  and  lingering  disease,  to  feast  upon  the 
sparkling  eye,  the  ruby  lips,  and  glowing  cheek  of 
youth  and  beauty. 

Annie  soon  became  fully  sensible  that  she  was 
not  long  for  this  world,  but  was  perfectly  calm 
and  resigned.  She  possessed  that  hope  that  alone 
can  sustain  the  soul  in  sickness  and  suffering, 
when  we  feel  that  our  hold  upon  earth  is  each 
day  growing  weaker,  and  eternity,  vast,  bound 
less,  with  all  its  untried  scenes,  with  all  its  deep 
mysteries,  and  overwhelming  interests,  lies  stretch 
ed  out  before  us,  when  the  soul  feels  that  it  must 
soon  be  called  upon  to  enter  upon  those  untried 


ANNIE    HOWARD.  333 

scenes,  and  to  fathom  the  deep  mysteries  of  that 
endless  existence,  and  that  it  must  go  alone  and 
unattended  into  the  presence  of  its  Maker,  there 
to  render  up  its  account.  She  felt  that,  although 
she  was  unworthy  of  God's  favor,  yet  Christ  had 
shed  his  blood  for  her,  and  she  trusted  that  her 
sins  had  been  washed  away  by  that  blood,  and 
her  soul  made  meet  for  the  heavenly  inheritance. 
She  strove  to  console  the  grief  of  her  parents, 
who  were  almost  heartbroken  at 'the  thought  of 
parting  from  their  child.  She  pointed  them  to 
that  home  beyond  the  grave,  where  they  should 
be  reunited  never  more  to  part ;  never  more  to  suffer 
pain,  or  sorrow,  or  care  ;  where  tears  are  wiped 
from  all  eyes,  and  the  ransomed  spirit  will  be  per 
mitted  to  join  with  the  heavenly  host  in  singing 
praises  to  the  Redeemer. 

She  bore  her  sufferings  with  sweet  resignation. 
As  her  bodily  strength  failed  her  mind  seemed  to 
expand,  and  her  intellectual  powers  to  grow  high 
er.  Her  love  of  the  beautiful  seemed  also  to  in 
crease.  The  deep  blue  sky,  when  studded  by  a 
countless  host  of  brilliant  stars ;  the  soft,  fleecy 
clouds  when  reflecting  the  gorgeous  hues  of  sun 
set  ;  the  music  of  the  birds  ;  the  whispering  of 
the  breeze,  making  mysterious  melody  as  it  min 
gled  with  the  rustling  of  the  leaves  ;  these,  with 
a  thousand  other  sweet  but  incomprehensible 
charms  of  nature,  seemed  to  form  the  link  that 
bound  her  soul  to  earth. 

Gradually  her  strength  failed ;  each  day  her 
fragile  form  became  more  attenuated,  and  her 
thin  hand  more  transparent.  There  was  nothing 


334  ANNIE    HOWARD. 

terrible  in  the  approach  of  death.  Nothing  that 
was  revolting  to  the  most  sensitive  mind  ;  but 
when  we  were  summoned  to  stand  around  her 
dying  bed,  there  was  something  so  calm,  so  heav 
enly,  so  peaceful,  in  the  expression  of  her  counte 
nance,  that  we  all  felt  that  it  was  indeed  a  privi 
lege  to  witness  the  departure  of  her  soul  to  the 
world  of  spirits,  and  we  involuntarily  exclaimed, 
"Let  me  die  the  death  of  the  righteous,  and  let 
my  last  end  be  like  his." 


WE   ALL   DO   PERISH, 


WE  ALL  DO  PERISH  LIKE  THE  LEAF. 


ONE  rosy  cloud  lay  cradled 
In  the  chambers  of  the  sky  ; 

Rock'd  gently  by  the  autumn  winds* 
As  they  came  sighing  by  ; 

Touching,  oh,  so  lightly, 

Each  leaf  on  ev'ry  tree, 
Yet  wafting  them  in  tinted  show'rs, 

O'er  mountain,  hill,  and  lee< 

For  autumn's  chilling  finger 
Has  touch'd  them,  by  decay; 

And  now  the  slightest  zephyr's  wing 
Bears  their  frail  form  away  : 

And  strews  them  o'er  the  barren  glebe, 

In  withered  heaps  to  lie 
The  sport  of  many  a  wintry  storm, 

As  it  comes  surging  by. 

So  man,  with  earthly  honor, 
Stands  proudly  forth,  to-day, — • 

To-morrow  Death's  untimely  frost 
His  glory  sweeps  away. 

And  down  in  Death's  dark  chambers, 

With  folded  hands  he  lies  ; 
The  things  of  earth  excluded 

Forever  from  his  eyes. 


LIFE    COMPARED    TO    THE    SEASONS* 


LIFE  COMPARED  TO  THE  SEASONS. 


LOUD  blows  the  stem  December  blast ; 

The  snow  is  falling  thick  and  fast ; 

And  all  around  so  cold  and  drear, — 

Proclaims  the  winter  of  the  year. 

Touched  by  the  finger  of  decay, 

Summer  beauties  passed  away — 

Her  fragrant  flowers  forgot  to  bloom, 

And  slept  within  their  winter  tomb. 

The  butterfly,  that  airy  thing, 

That  floated  on  its  gilded  wing, 

And  birds  that  with  their  music  rare, 

Warbling  filled  the  summer  air  ; 

Dewdrops  that  gemm'd  the  morning  flower, 

All — all  were  pageants  of  an  hour, — 

The  trappings  of  a  summer  day, 

That  sank  with  her  into  decay. 

But  though  bleak  winter  reigns  around, — 

Nor  fruit,  nor  flowor  adorns  the  ground, 

We  know  that  Spring  will  wake  again 

All  the  pageant  Summer  train. 

And  Winter  lias  its  store  of  mirth, 

Its  studies  and  its  social  hearth, 

And  by  nature  seems  designed 

To  elevate  the  human  mind. 

The  seed  committed  to  its  trust 

Will  not  decay,  and  sink  to  dust, — 

It  will  not  with  the  summer  die, 

And  dormant  through  the  winter  lie  : 

But  ever  fruitful,  it  will  be, 

Even  through  eternity. 


WRITING   COMPOSITION. 


WRITING    COMPOSITION. 


WELL,  here  I  am,  sitting  down  with  inkstand, 
pen  and  paper  all  before  me,  to  write  a  composi 
tion.  And  what  is  composition  ?  It  is  thought 
drawn  from  the  resources  of  the  mind,  and  por 
trayed  upon  the  unsullied  page.  The  mind,  that 
mysterious,  unfathomable,  undying,  immortal  part 
of  man  ;  that  immaterial  essence,  which  contem 
plates  upon  past  and  future  scenes,  from  which 
emanates  all  our  thoughts  and  passions — and  all 
our  happiness  or  misery.  If  we  would  have  our 
composition  correct,  the  mind  must  be  well  culti 
vated,  for  that,  like  a  well  cultivated  garden,  will 
produce  fine  fruit  and  beautiful  flowers,  where  no 
noxous  weed  should  be  allowed  to  intrude,  or  deli 
cate  plant  wither  and  die  for  want  of  culture. 
The  mind  should  be  strengthened  and  nourished 
by  solid  reading,  well  digested.  The  rich  volume 
of  nature  lies  open  before  us,  where  all  who  will 
read,  may  improve  the  intellect. 

Do  we  seek  for  the  beautiful  ?  we  see  it  around 
us  in  the  gently  sloping  hill,  the  verdant  vale,  the 
fragrant  flowers,  and  the  whispering  rill,  and  the 
lo 


338  WRITING    COMPOSITION; 

ten  thousand  varied  beauties  with  which  nature  is 
decked.  Or  seek  we  for  the  sublime,  we  must 
contemplate  the  whirlwind  in  its  fury,  the  vivid 
lightning's  flash,  and  the  deep  toned  thunder,  re 
verberating  peal  on  peal,  the  mountain  torrent, 
dashing  down  the  stupendous  height,  and  hurrying 
to  embosom  itself  in  the  ocean  below ;  or  the  for 
est,  standing  unbroken  in  its  silent  majesty,  till 
the  thoughts  instinctively  rise  from  the  sublimities 
of  nature,  to  nature's  Grod,  the  maker  and  former 
of  them  all. 

Composition  is  said  to  be  the  index  of  the  mind, 
if  so,  how  necessary  it  is  that  there  should  be  no 
improper  word  or  idea  expressed,  no  blot  or  tar 
nish  should  be  upon  the  fair  page ;  how  chaste  and 
elegant  should  be  the  diction,  how  pure  and  re 
fined  the  idea,  how  simple  and  concise  the  expres 
sion.  It  should  belike  the  glassy  lake  that  reflects 
an  unclouded  sky — the  mirror  of  a  spotless  mind. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN  IN  ANSWER  TO  THE  QUESTION  "WHERE  is  OUR 
POET  ?" 

ASK  you  for  the  poet  lyre? 
What  can  touch  his  soul  with  fire, 
When  from  ev'ry  passing  cloud 
The  storm-king  whistles  shrill  and  loudj 
And  nature  shrieks  her  requiem  wild, 
O'er  summer,  her  departed  child. 
When  through  the  shorten'd  winter  day 
The  languid  sun  sheds  sickly  ray, 
And  struggling  moonbeams  seem  at  most, 
Dim  meteor  forms  of  Ossian's  ghost. 
Then  shall  not  I,  a  feeble  maid, 
Of  the  Muses  be  afraid  ? 
When  poets  sleep  with  talents  fine, 
Shall  I  approach  tho    ''  sacred  Nine  ?" 
But  when  I  heard  the  vesper  bell 
Mournful  peal  its  sad  farewell ; 
And  murmuring  through  the  evening  air} 
Echo  only  answered,  "  where  ?" 
I  thought  I'd  chase  my  fears  away, 
And  conjure  up  a  simple  lay. 
Ye  poets  who  have  talents  ten, 
Excuse  the  errors  of  my  pen ; 
The  best  I  could  do  I  have  done, 
For  reader  I  have  scarcely  one. 
20 


MY  HUSBAND'S  GRAVE. 


MY    HUSBAND'S    GRAVE. 


IN  looking  over  the  foregoing  pages,  I  feel  that 
sad  indeed  have  been  my  wanderings  in  the  shady 
paths  of  life.  The  aged  friends  of  my  childhood 
have  been  buried  over  again.  The  last  sad  part 
ing  from  many  dear  friends  has  been  noted  down  ; 
the  deaths  of  sister,  brother  and  mother,  have  been 
noticed  in  sad  rotation  ;  grand-children  have 
sprung  up,  beside  the  way,  flourished  for  a  little 
season,  then  faded  like  the  pale,  withering  leaves 
of  autumn,  and  passed  away  from  earth  forever. 

O,  Memory,  thy  garland  has  indeed  been  en 
twined,  with  many  a  withered  flower,  whose  leaves 
though  faded,  emit  a  sweet  fragrance  to  the  heart, 
and  lead  it  to  a  purer,  holier  trust  in  heaven. 

But  there  is  a  deeper  shadow,  a  gloomier  shade, 
a  sadder  spot  upon  earth,  than  we  have  yet  visited. 
It  is  the  recently  made  grave  of  my  husband — the 
father  of  my  children,  who  passecl  suddenly  away, 
leaving  his  afflicted  family,  bereft  of  his  counsel, 
his  watch  care,  and  his  support. 

As  I  stand  in  this  sad  spot,  and  gaze  upon  that 
lone  grave,  with  tearful  eyes  and  a  bursting  heart, 


MY  HUSBAND'S  GRAVE.  341 

memory  comes  like  a  tide,  throwing  over  my  soul 
the  remembrances  of  the  many — many  years  we 
have  journeyed  on  together,  since  our  first  acquain 
tance  in  academic  halls  (for  our  intimacy  first 
commenced  in  school),  and  all  the  sad  loneliness 
of  the  present  presses  like  a  weight  upon  me, 
crushing  me  to  the  earth,  and  obscuring  all  the 
sunshine  of  earthly  bliss. 

How  sad  and  desolate  is  the  home  from  which 
some  loved  one  has  been  borne  suddenly  away, 
with  the  firm  assurance  that  "  the  places  that  once 
knew  them  shall  know  them  no  more  forever." 

The  vacant  seat  at  table,  the  return  of  their 
usual  hour  of  arrival,  all  places  and  all  things  re 
mind  us  of  the  departed  one,  and  bring  up  harrow 
ing  remembrances  of  the  past,  that  add  deeper 
pangs  to  our  sorrow,  and  fill  our  hearts  with  more 
unendurable  anguish,  and  suffuse  our  cheeks  with 
more  scalding  tears,  as  the  stern  reality  presses 
upon  us,  that  it  always  must  be  thus. 

Companion  of  my  youth,  can  it  be  possible  thy 
manly  form  is  hid  beneath  this  grassy  mound  at 
my  feet  ?  that  I  never  again  shall  hear  the  sound 
of  that  voice,  whose  endearing  tone  won  me  to  thy 
side,  to  unite  my  destiny  with  thine,  and  float  with 
thee  over  life's  tempestous  ocean  ? 

Rough,  indeed,  has  been  the  passage,  and  many 
the  adverse  storms  we  have  encountered,  during 
our  thirty-two  years  companionship,  and  now, 
way-worn  and  weary,  the  grave — the  greedy  grave 
claims  thee  for  its  occupant.  How  sweet  is  the 
assurance  "that  the  graves  shall  give  up  their 
dead,  and  this  mortal  shall  put  on  immortality." 
3o 


342  MY  HUSBAND'S  GRAVE. 

Yes,  this  dear  dust  shall  rise  again,  and  be  clothed 
in  undying  youth. 

O,  how  stealthily  the  stern  messenger  came,  lay 
ing  low  the  form  of  the  strong  man,  ere  we  were 
aware  of  his  danger.  One  week — one  short  wreek, 
and  yet  to  him  a  week  of  agonizing  suffering,  and 
all  was  over.  Yet,  in  that  week,  what  a  volume 
might  be  written,  of  deep,  intense  thought  and 
feeling,  of  fervent  prayer  and  supplication,  and 
tearful,  childlike  submission  to  the  divine  will. 
Might  be  written  did  I  say  ?  Is  it  not  written — 
even  in  the  book  of  God's  remembrance  ?  Neith 
er  sigh  or  tear  were  unnoticed,  or  prayer  unheard, 
by  that  God  who  careth  for  us,  and  numbereth  the 
very  hairs  of  our  heads.  How  often  the  prayer 
ascended  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  man,  "  O  my 
Father,  help  me  in  this  my  extremity,"  and  it  was 
indeed  his  hour  of  extreme  necessity,  for  he  was 
wrestling  with  his  last  enemy. 

A  smile  sat  upon  his  countenance,  even  while 
struggling  for  that  frail  life  that  was  so  soon  to 
end,  and  it  is  now  very  evident  to  those  that  were 
in  attendance  upon  him,  that  he  was  more  fully 
aware  of  his  situation  than  they.  Every  arrange 
ment  and  every  observation  plainly  shows  now 
that  he  had  little,  if  any  hope  of  recovery. 

But  still  the  attending  physician  spoke  very  en 
couragingly  to  him,  and  to  others,  and  so  we  hoped 
and  believed  he  would  yet  be  well. 

He  was  grateful  for  every  attention.  Ere  the 
disease  (which  was  pneumonia)  assumed  its  most 
fearful  aspect ;  a  daughter,  who  was  watching  by 
the  bed,  hearing  him  whisper,  thought  he  was  ad- 


.  MY  HUSBAND'S  GRAVE.  343 

dressing  her;  but  bending  over  the  pillow,  she 
heard  him  say. 

"  Oh,  my  Father,  if  it  be  possible,  let  this  cup 
pass  from  me." 

Then  raising  his  clasped  hands,  said,  fervently, 
"Nevertheless,  not  my  will,  but  thine  be  done." 
Towards  morning,  reason  became  dethroned, 
and  the  bewildered  imagination  wandered  in  the 
land  of  shadows.  There  was  an  extremely  anx 
ious  expression  of  countenance,  and  he  would 
look  earnestly  upon  his  attendants,  as  though  he 
thought  we  could  relieve  him.  He  was  incessant 
ly  springing  from  his  bed  in  his  struggles  for 
breath,  and  trying  every  new  position  that  the 
extremity  of  his  case  could  possibly  suggest,  but 
all  to  no  avail. 

But  why  dwell  upon  the  fearful  scene  ?  We 
have  seen  the  little  child  contending  with  the 
strong  arm  of  the  destroyer,  and  felt  it  was  a  fear 
ful  thing  for  it  to  yield  up  its  little  life  and  pass 
forever  away  from  earth.  But  when  we  see  the 
strong  man  cut  suddenly  down,  the  man  who  has 
scarcely  passed  the  meridian  of  life,  we  "  feel 
how  dreadful  'tis  to  die."  The  love  of  life  is 
strengthened  by  years.  There  are  cords  of  assr- 
ciation  binding  him  to  it,  the  rolling,  restless  tide 
of  business,  with  its  fluctuations  and  its  care,C!, 
sweeps  over  him,  and  seems  binding  him  to  earth. 
The  love  of  children,  for  whose  welfare  a  kind 
father  has  so  long  been  mindful,  and  all  the  fond 
endearments  of  home  and  kindred,  are  so  many 
sacred  ties  binding  him  to  life.  But  all  must  be 
severed  before  the  ruthless  tyrant  who  conquers 
4o 


344  MY  HUSBAND'S  GRAY  i.. 

conquerors,  and  has  justly  been  styled,  "  the  king 
of  terrors." 

And  so  it  was  in  this  case.  Nature  yielded  re 
luctantly  every  advantage  gained  by  the  fearful 
foe,  'till  her  energies  were  exhausted,  and  sinking 
down  in  quiet  slumber,  she  yielded  the  contest 
without  a  struggle. 

About  eight  o'clock  on  Thursday  evening,  a 
heavy  stupor  came  over  him,  and  the  fearful  death- 
rattle  warned  us  of  the  approach  of  the  grim  mes 
senger.  We  watched  his  failing  breath  with  ago 
nizing  emotions.  But  we  turned  from  him  one 
little  moment,  and  when  we  turned  again,  the 
lamp  of  life  was  extinguished.  O,  the  fearful 
agonizing  cry  that  arose  by  that  death  bed,  when 
we  realized  that  the  husband  and  father  had  pass 
ed  away,  forever  away.  But  while  we  wept  and 
mourned,  he  slept  on  unheeding.  Death  made 
little  change  in  his  countenance,  and  when  he  was 
dressed  in  his  accustomed  clothing,  and  laid  in 
his  coffin,  he  looked  like  a  weary  man  taking  rest 
in  sleep. 

It  was  a  pleasant  day  in  mid  April  that  we  bore 
him  to  his  grave,  and  laid  him  down  beneath  the 
green  branches  of  the  arbor  vitae  tree.  How 
many  mournful  thoughts  pressed  upon  the  heart, 
almost  crushing  out  the  very  life,  as  the  mournful 
train  followed  him  to  that  sacred  spot.  Who 
that  has  looked  into  an  open  grave,  and  seen  the 
coffin  of  the  dearly  loved  lowered  into  it,  but  has 
felt  an  indiscribable  agony  filling  the  heart,  and 
blotting  out  all  the  prospect  of  future  earthly 
happiness  ?  And  who  that  listens  to  the  sound  of 


MY  HUSBAND'S  GRAVE.  345 

the  heavy,  damp  earth  as  it  falls  upon  the  coffin, 
but  will  say,  "  oh,  has  earth  another  sound  like 
this?"  And  there  we  left  the  husband  and  the 
father  reposing  beneath  the  tree  his  own  hand  had 
trained,  and  in  the  yard  where  he  had  spent  so 
many  hours  laboring  to  beautify  the  spot  where 
he  was  so  soon  to  lie  down  in  his  last  long  sleep. 
By  his  side  are  the  graves  of  the  two  dear  grand 
children,  who  were  wont  to  share  in  his  caresses, 
and  his  smiles.  Silent  now  is  their  greeting,  as 
the  weary  grandfather  lays  down  with  them  in 
the  place  of  graves.  But  eternity  !  oh  eternity ! 
how  is  the  meeting  there  1  Have  they  met  ? 
There  are  father,  mother,  brothers,  sister,  and  a 
long  train  of  relatives  from  whom  he  has  been 
long  separated.  Have  they  recognized  each  oth 
er  ?  O,  bewildering  thoughts,  be  still,  and  cease 
your  restless  longings  ;  "  secret  things  belong  to 
God,"  and  "  what  we  know  not  now  we  shall 
know  hereafter."  But  now,  while  the  soft  winds 
of  summer  are  gently  sighing  through  the  branch 
es  of  the  arbor  vitae  tree  that  stands  at  the  head 
of  the  grassy  mound  that  rises  over  the  form  of 
my  buried  husband,  I  see  by  his  side,  the  spot 
where,  in  all  human  probability,  this  frame  will 
soon  be  deposited,  to  sleep  with  him  in  death's 
silent  halls,  even  as  I  have  journeyed  with  him 
through  life.  'Till  then,  let  me  turn  to  my  mis 
sion,  and  endeavor  by  a  faithful  discharge  of  every 
duty,  to  prepare  for  that  time,  and  strive  by  a 
holy  life  and  godly  conversation,  to  so  influence 
my  children,  that  they  may  all  seek  a  city  not 

made  with  hands   eternal,    and  in  the   heavens. 
5o 


346  MY  HUSBAND'S  GRAVE. 

And  thus  shall  be  answered  my  daily  prayer,  that 
we  may  be  a  united  family  in  heaven. 

So  we  returned  to  the  house  beneath  the  mild 
radiance  of  a  Sabbath  sun,  to  experience  that  aw 
ful  void  that  death  makes  in  the  domestic  circle 
to  which  so  many  bereaved  hearts  can  respond. 


LINES 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   UPON   THE    YOUNG   WHO   HAVE    BECENTLT 
DIED   IN   OUR    VILLAGE. 

WHY  arc  the  young  and  beautiful 

Call'd  so  early  to  the  tomb  ? 
Death  surely  loves  a  shining  mark, — 

And  sweetly  feeds  on  youthful  bloom  ! 

Go,  wander  in  the  place  of  graves, 
When  softly  steals  the  autumn's  sigh, 

And  on  the  sculptur'd  marble  read, 
How  many  in  life's  morning  die. 

Beauty  may  bloom  upon  the  cheek, 
And  brightly  sparkle  in  the  eye  ; 

But  soon  the  fatal  hectic  streak 

Proclaims  that  stealthy  Death  is  nigh. 

Maria,  by  her  mother's  side, 

So  young,  in  Death's  dark  chambers  laid, 
And  Lottie,  soon  to  be  a  bride, 

Have  seen  earth's  fairest  vision  fade. 

A  lovely  vision  floating  fair, 

In  Memory's  chambers  now  is  seen, 

With  sparkling  eyes  and  glossy  hair, 
A  radiant  brow,  and  gentle  mien. 

She  stole  by  fond  and  winning  ways, 

Into  many  a  loving  heart ; 
And  with  a  sweet  and  childish  grace, 

Well  performed  her  little  part. 

60 


-348  LINES. 

But  death  soon  laid  her  beauty  low, 

Like  spring  flowers  fading  on  the  stem, 

And,  blighting  all  her  youthful  bloom, 
Laid  Clara,  mould'ring  now  with  them. 

I  a  a-' 

Dear  Willie  too,  that  child  of  prayer, 
So  suddenly  hus  pass'd  away, 

And  enter'd  those  bless'd  mansions  where 
All  is  bright,  eternal  day. 

Here,  many  a  loving  name  is  found, 
Of  those  who  in  life's  pathway  trod  ; 

Who  slumber  now,  beneath  the  mound, 
Their  spirits  summon'd  to  their  God. 

Some  by  long  disease  confin'd, 
Have  slowly  wasted  day  by  day  ; 

Health,  strength  and  beauty — all  declin'd, 
And  Youth's  bright  visions  pass'd  away. 

But  wander  on  ;  the  sculptur'd  stone 
In  thunder  tones  is  speaking  here  ; 

The  name — the  age — it  loudly  tells, 
To  eye  and  heart,  if  not  the  ear. 

They  sleep  when  winter's  winds  are  loud, 
And  snow  and  sleet  come  drifting  by  ; 

And  when  light  sails  the  rosy  cloud, 

And  Spring's  sweet  gales  around  them  sigh. 

They  sleep — ah,  yes — that  dreamless  sleep, 
That  never  shall  know  waking  more  ; 

They've  cross'd  the  icy  steam  of  death. 
And  pass'd  unto  the  viewless  shore. 


CONSCIENCE. 


CONSCIENCE. 


CONSCIENCE,  and  what  is  conscience  ?  Is  it  not 
that  silent  but  powerful  monitor  within  that 
weighs  our  every  motive  1  is  it  not  the  small  still 
voice  that  whispers  its  approval  when  we  have 
acted  right,  but  bursts  like  the  crashing  thunder 
peal  or  the  terrific  earthquake,  when  we  have 
acted  wrong  ?  She  stands  with  extended  finger  a 
silent  though  faithful  friend,  and  points  us  onward 
in  the  plain  path  of  duty.  We  have  only  to  fol 
low  her  dictates,  and  all  will  be  well.  But  many 
gaudy  flowers  are  blooming  here  and  there  beside 
the  path,  to  tempt  the  thoughtless  one  to  step 
aside  and  pluck ;  but  though  they  are  beautiful 
to  the  eye,  and  their  fragrance  borne  to  us  by  the 
breeze,  seems  to  woo  us  temptingly,  yet,  conceal 
ed  within  their  leaves  is  a  deadly  scorpion  or  pois 
onous  asp,  whose  sting  is  instant  death,  or  some, 
perhaps,  contain  a  more  slow  and  sluggish  poison, 
that  creeps  into  the  mind,  and  instilling  its  venom 
by  slow  degrees,  corrupts  the  whole.  Conscience 
has  well  been  called  the  tell  tale  of  our  breasts. 

How  does  it  harrow  up  the  mind  at  the  still 


350  CONSCIENCE. 

hours  of  midnight,  when  all  nature  sleeps  around, 
and  depict  crimes  that  no  eye  has  witnessed  but 
God  and  their  perpetrators  ;  how  does  the  mur 
derer  toss  from  side  to  side  beneath  her  lash,  and 
see  his  victim  for  the  thousandth  time  in  the 
agonies  of  death ;  over  and  over  again,  she  acts 
the  bloody  scene,  and,  while  he  turns  restless  and 
feverish  upon  his  pillow,  still  holds  the  picture 
bleeding  fresh  to  fancy's  wearied  gaze,  and  as  in 
Macbeth,  presents  the  dagger,  while  "  on  its  blade 
and  bludgeon  are  drops  of  blood  that  were  not  so 
before."  Crimes  of  dye  not  so  deep,  are  conjured 
up  to  harrow  up  the  breast  and  rack  the  brain, 
and  render  the  victim  of  a  disapproving  conscience 
a  miserable  wretch  indeed. 

Truly  she  is  placed  within  us  as  a  friend,  warn 
ing  us  of  danger  and  pressaging  good.  If  we 
would  listen  to  her  dictates,  we  must  be  happy, 
for  she  never  argues  wrong.  And  superlatively 
happy  are  they  who  can  lay  calmly  down  on  the 
bed  of  death  cheered  by  her  approving  smiles,  for 
a  "death  bed  is  a  detector  of  the  heart;"  here 
tired  dissimulation  drops  the  mark  that  through 
life's  grimace  has  kept  up  the  scene. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN     IN     AN     ALBUM. 


THE  autumn  winds  are  sighing  loud, 
And  wither'd  leaves  come  flitting  by, 

And  slowly  sails  the  gath'ring  clouQ, 
Across  the  bleak  November  sky. 

The  flow'rs  have  perish'd  on  the  stem, 
Their  brilliant  beauty  all  decay'd, 

And  many  golden  hope  like  them, 
In  disappointment's  tomb  is  laid. 

But  yet,  far  sinking  to  his  rest, 
The  golden  king  of  day  behold, 

The  crimson  curtains  of  the  west 
Are  richly  fring'd  with  molten  gold. 

Thus  brightly  may  your  life  decline. 

Though  youth  may  fade  upon  your  brow, 
May  Truth  and  Virtue  radiant  shine, 

E'en  like  yon  sinking  sun  beam  now. 


LETTER , 

FROM    THE    PEN   OF   MY   HUSBAND,     NOW   DECEASED. 


Pawtucket,  June  20,  1852. 
MRS.  M.  M.  BUCKLIN  : 

My  daughter  in  affliction,  I  would  that,  like 
Paul  on  Mars  Hill,  I  could  enter  at  once,  with  elo 
quence  and  persuasion,  on  a  subject  that  might 
have  the  influence  of  restoring  or  bringing  back 
your  natural  buoyancy  and  elasticity  of  spirit.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  I  feel  earnestly,  sensibly  and 
deeply  for  you ;  and  any  mortal  effort  or  sacrifice 
within  my  power  should  not  be  wanting  to  effect 
an  object  so  desirable  by  your  friends.  But  Mal- 
vina,  an  arm  of  flesh  is  not  to  be  relied  upon ;  no 
human  ken  can  reach  the  mysterious  windings 
and  wonderful  intricacies  of  a  mother's  love  for 
her  offspring.  That  is,  as  yet,  the  unrevealed 
handiwork  of  Omnipotence,  who  in  wisdom  con 
ceived  the  beautiful  mechanism,  and  brought  to 
perfection  the  refinements  of  our  nature ;  and  to 
his  almighty  fiat  are  we  indebted,  both  for  the 
boon  of  death  and  the  glorious  hope  of  the  resur- 


LETTER.  353 

vt 

rection.  How  peculiarly  adapted  to  our  consola 
tion  is  the  doctrine  of  the  resurrection.  The  angel 
of  mercy  has  withdrawn  from  your  boson  a  beloved 
child.  O,  how  sweet  the  consolation  of  hope 
through  the  very  life-giving  words  of  Him  who 
cannot  lie,  as  so  beautifully  and  so  tenderly  ex 
pressed  to  Martha,  "Thy  brother  shall  rise  again." 
And,  my  daughter,  be  assured  that  your  little  Em 
ma  shall  rise  again,  for  said  the  same  Almighty 
Comforter,  "  of  such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 
Therefore  it  would  be  wise  in  us  not  to  sorrow  for 
her  who  is  asleep.  I  know  you  believe  that  Jesus 
died  and  rose  again.  And  so,  also,  of  them  who 
sleep  in  Jesus,  will  God  bring  with  him. 

The  question  by  the  afflicted  man  of  Uz  might 
once,  with  some  degree  of  propriety  have  been  ask 
ed,  "  If  a  man  die  shall  he  live  again  ?"  But  we  be 
lieve  iu  the  resurrection  of  the  dead,  because  He 
who  has  promised  is  able  to  perform,  and  no  science 
however  new,  nor  speculation  however  magnifi 
cent,  should  be  allowed  to  rob  us  of  this  beautiful 
and  life-giving  hope.  I  know  that  it  is  hard  for 
us  to  concieve  the  mighty  power  of  transformation 
or  to  demonstrate  the  great  principle  of  a  spiritual 
ascension  from  our  decayed  bodies,  of  those  se 
raphic  hosts,  who  are  to  stand  as  ministering 
angels  around  the  majesty  of  Heaven,  through  all 
the  never  ending  cycles  of  eternity,  no  matter  what 
objections  skepticism  may  urge  of  the  impossibil 
ity  of  conceiving  how  the  dead  can  be  raised  up 
to  a  newness  of  life.  Our  faith  receives  it  as  a 
revealed  fact,  and  our  hearts  rejoice  in  the  glori 
ous  hope,  because  we  know  that  our  Redeemer 


354  LETTER. 

V 

liveth,  and  that  he  will  again  stand  upon  this  earth. 
And  though  these  our  frail  bodies  may  be  de 
stroyed  by  death,  yet  shall  we  see  God.  Marvel 
lous  as  may  be  the  transition,  at  death  and  the 
resurrection,  we  shall  all  preserve  our  own  iden 
tity,  and  see  and  know  the  beloved  companions  of 
our  earthly  pilgrimage. 

Blessed  be  God  for  this  sweet  hope  in  the  resur 
rection  of  the  dead,  that  so  clothes  the  far  off  and 
unseen  world  with  ecstatic  anticipations  of  the  re 
newed  presence  of  our  friends,  to  whom,  even  in 
their  glorified  appearance,  we  shall  be  no  stran 
gers.  We  must  not  persuade  ourselves  that  the 
preservation  of  little  Emma's  sacred  dust  is  a  mere 
tribute  of  affection  to  her  memory  ;  but  rather  a 
prophecy  of  that  precious  hope,  that  she  shall 
awake  from  this  sleep  and  meet  us  again,  and  that 
we  shall  know  her  again,  and  that  we  shall  be  to 
gether,  and  unitedly  hear  that  voice,  sublime  and 
almighty,  yet  tender  and  soothing,  saying,  "I  am 
the  resurrection  and  the  life  ;  he  that  believeth  in 
me  though  he  were  dead,  yet  shall  he  live." 

The  resurrection  of  the  dead  is  the  crowning  act 
of  the  Redeemer's  power,  and  the  consummation 
of  his  work.  How  beautiful  to  contemplate  the 
spiritual  import  and  eternal  grandeur  of  his  mis 
sion  : 

"  We  may  be  blest,  but  Emma's  glorious — 
0'<  r  all  the  stings  of  death  victorious." 

Dear  M.  M. : 

"You  feel  like  Eve,  when  Eden's  gate 
Had  closed  on  her  forevermore  ; — 


LETTER.  355 

You  feel  that  life  is  desolate, 

And  Paradise  is  o'er. 
No  tears  be  yours,  for  tears  are  vain  ; 

Your  heart  and  not  your  robe  is  rent : 
If  God  who  gave  did  take  again, 

'Tis  folly  to  lament. 
Then  drop  the  curtain,  fold  by  fold, 

O'er  her  consecrated  bower; 
And  veil  from  curious  eyes,  and  cold, 

Your  dead,  yet  living  flower." 

Affectionately,  your 

FATHER. 


HOPE. 


HOPE. 


A  LITTLE  skiff  on  time's  dark  stream, 

With  silken  sail  and  golden  oar, 
Is  floating  like  a  fairy  dream, 

And  pointing  to  some  distant  shore, 

Where  brighter  bloom  more  fragrant  flow'rs, 
Perfuming  amaranthine  bow'rs. 

The  oar  that  dips  the  sullen  wave, 

Throws  up  some  diamond  rich  and  rare, 
Striving  the  sinking  soul  to  save. 
From  the  dark  shadows  of  despair ; 
And  though  the  night  be  e'er  so  dark, 
Light  hovers  o'er  this  little  bark. 

'Tis  Hope  unfurls  that  silken  sail, 

And  dips  her  oar  in  life's  deep  tide  ; 
And  dancing  on  before  the  gale, 

Throws  sparkling  diamonds  far  and  wide, 
And  paints  in  brilliant  rainbow  dyes, 
Onward  to  some  radiant  prize. 


VISIT   TO    MOUNT   AUBURN- 


VISIT    TO   MOUNT    AUBURN. 


IT  was  a  beautiful  day  in  autumn,  when  the 
mellow  sun  shed  his  subduing  rays  over  the  face 
of  decaying  nature,  that  we  entered  the  elegant 
carriage  of  an  esteemed  friend,  and  pursued  our 
way  towards  Mount  Auburn,  that  quiet  resting 
place  of  the  dead. 

As  we  pursued  our  way  from  East  Boston,  the 
water  in  the  harbor,  whitened  with  many  a  sail, 
sparkled  in  the  morning  sun,  and  glittered  like 
ten  thousand  diamonds. 

It  was  Saturday,  busy,  bustling  Saturday,  when 
all  the  world  seemed  hurrying  on  as  if  to  make 
amends  for  any  deficiency  in  the  other  days  of  the 
week. 

The  white  sea-gulls  were  floating  through  the 
air,  often  stooping  as  if  to  dip  their  wings  in  the 
ocean  waves,  that  murmured  gently  upon  the 
winding  shore. 

There  was  scarce  a  cloud  to  be  seen  in  the  sky, 
and  the  calmness  of  nature  whispered  peace  to 
the  weary  spirit. 

As  we  crossed  the  ferry  and  entered  the  city, 


358  VISIT   TO    MOUNT   AUBURN. 

and  witnessed  the  moving  tide  of  human  life  that 
was  surging  through  the  city  mart  jostling  aganst 
each  other  in  their  eager  chase  ;  and  as  we  looked 
out  upon  the  motly  group,  human  life  was  to  be 
seen  in  almost  all  its  forms. 

Wealth  hung  out  his  golden  trappings,  and 
rolled  by  in  all  the  splendor  of  ease  and  luxury 
The  children  of  poverty  trudged  on  in  tattered 
garments,  stung  by  pinching  want,  bearing  heavy 
burdens  upon  their  heads,  and  weighed  down  by 
oppression. 

These  scenes  awoke  many  reflections  in  the 
mind,  and  presented  the  contrast  of  life. 

Passing  through  the  city  with  its  tumults  and 
its  changes,  \ve  pursued  our  way  through  Cam 
bridge  to  the  Cemetery. 

The  scenery  was  beautiful,  and  as  we  passed 
the  elm  tree  wrhere  Washington  stood  to  give 
command  to  his  army,  how  many  associations 
rushed  upon  the  mind,  filling  it  with  remembran 
ces  of  our  country's  early  struggles. 

We  entered  the  quiet  shades  "  where  rest  the 
dead,"  sleeping  beneath  the  sober  shadows  of  the 
forest  trees  that  were  scattering  now  and  then  a 
withered  leaf  upon  the  grassy  mounds  that  lay  at 
their  feet.  Here  still,  even  here  too,  is  the  same 
contrast  so  visible  in  the  moving,  active  life  of  the 
city. 

Wealth  here  has  the  splendid  monument,  em 
bellished  with  all  the  sculptor's  art,  while  the 
poor  sleep  as  sweetly  beneath  the  simple  sod. 

Our  first  visit  was  to  the  Chapel.  You  are 
struck  upon  your  entrance  with  the  hollow  sounds 


VISIT   TO   MOUNT   AUBURN.  359 

that  reverberate  at  every  footfall,  reminding  one 
of  the  emptiness  of  all  earthly  things. 

There  was  a  coffin  within  the  paling,  covered 
with  a  black  pall,  speaking  to  us  of  death  and 
decay;  but  as  we  raised  our  eyes  to  the  stained 
glass  windows,  through  which  the  autumnal  sun 
was  pouring  his  mellow  rays,  and  casting  such  a 
subdued  and  peculiar  light  upon  all  things  in  the 
Chapel,  and  saw  the  heavenly  expression  of  the 
angels  as  they  took  their  upward  flight,  the  soul 
seemed  big  with  immortality,  and  the  Christian's 
hope  teeming  with  a  better  life,  was  cheering  to 
it,  lifting  it  up  till  the  things  of  earth  looked  dim, 
distant,  shadowy. 

The  beautiful  statue,  too,  touched  so  nicely  by 
the  hand  of  art,  as  to  look  like  breathing  marble, 
points  the  beholder  upward  to  the  skies.  This 
Chapel,  standing  as  it  does  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Cemetery,  is  well  calculated  to  solemnize  the 
mind,  and  prepare  it  for  the  contemplations  of 
the  surrounding  scene. 

As  we  left  its  quiet  retreat  and  pursued  our  on 
ward  way,  sad  thoughts  came  stealing  over  the 
mind,  as  we  reflected  how  many  aching  hearts  and 
tearful  eyes  had  passed  over  that  road  to  deposit 
the  dearly  loved,  and  lost  in  their  last  resting 
places. 

How  proper  it  seems  that  a  navigator  should 
stand  at  the  entrance  to  pilot  the  way,  and  we 
can  but  think  Spurzheim  is  taking  his  scientific 
observations,  as  his  bust  stands  as  though  looking 
upon  the  passers  by  as  they  pursue  their  way  to 
the  city  of  the  dead. 


300  VISIT   TO    MOUNT   AUBURN. 

We  passed  on  our  way  through  the  winding  ave 
nues,  presenting  their  striking  and  varied  em 
blems,  speaking  so  forcibly  to  the  mind.  The 
white  dove  with  open  beak  and  half  spread  wing ; 
the  harp  with  the  broken  string,  and  the  broken 
column,  are  all  beautiful  and  significant  represen 
tations,  preaching  loudly  for  the  silent  dust  that 
slumbers  beneath  them. 

As  we  ascended  to  the  tower,  we  passed  the 
yard  enclosed  with  the  beautiful  bronze  fence. 
Looking  from  the  tower  you  witnessed  life  with 
its  struggles,  its  comforts  and  luxuries  ;  but  the 
graves  beneath  us  say,  "  we  must  leave  all,  and 
come  and  make  our  beds  with  them." 

How  striking  is  the  anxious  expression  of  the 
faithful  dog,  keeping  patient  watch  over  the  grave 
of  his  young  master,  through  summer's  sultry 
heat,  and  winter's  pinching  cold,  never  betraying 
his  trust.  How  beautiful,  and  yet  how  simple  is 
the  touching  inscriptions,  "  My  Father,"  "  My 
Mother."  Neither  name  or  age  are  mentioned  to 
the  stranger,  yet  what  a  volume  is  spoken  directly 
to  the  heart.  The  white  lambs  reposing  upon 
the  grassy  mounds  represent  the  innocence  that 
slumbers  beneath. 

Many  little  tokens  are  scattered  round  here  and 
there,  as  mementoes  of  fond  affection.  As  we 
gazed  upon  the  fresh  boquets,  wet  with  the  dew  of 
night,  we  felt  that  love  lingered  around  those 
places,  and  the  tears  of  affection  often  fell  there. 

The  flowers,  beautiful  though  they  are,  either 
at  the  tomb  or  the  bridal,  give  us  no  name  or 
trace  of  former  days,  but  lay  scattered  round  in 


VISIT    TO    MOUNT   AUBURN.  361 

rich  profusion,  telling  us  of  love  arid  affection  that 
cannot  perish,  because  they  are  amaranthine  flow 
ers  that  have  their  root  in  the  mind,  and  bear  the 
impress  of  immortality  ;  and  as  we  gaze  upon  the 
beautiful,  either  in  nature  or  art,  it  becomes  da- 
guerreotyped  upon  the  soul,  and  thus  lives  for 
ever,  coming  up  at  the  touch  of  memory's  wand, 
with  all  the  vividness  of  a  first  impression. 

The  forest  trees  standing  in  solemn  grandeur, 
the  winding  avenues,  the  sloping  hills,  the  deep 
dells,  with  the  placid  waters  sleeping  in  their 
bosoms,  with  the  bright  red  flowers  contrasting 
with  the  white  polished  marble  monuments,  all 
conspire  to  render  the  place  one  of  extreme  beau 
ty  and  interest.  But  when  we  compare  this  with 
the  descriptions  we  have  read  of  Westminster 
Abbey,  covered  with  the  mouldering  dust  of  ages, 
as  generation  after  generation  has  been  added  to 
it,  we  can  picture  to  ihe  imagination  the  change 
passing  years  will  make  here.  The  silent  hand 
of  time  will  steal  by  degrees,  the  freshness  and 
beauty  from  the  polished  marble,  effacing  their 
beauties,  one  by  one,  'till  all  are  obliterated,  and 
green  mould  and  moss  occupy  their  places,  and 
the  monument  shall  cease  to  be  a  memorial. 

Such  is  time  with  its  changes,  and  yet  the 
thoughtless  race  of  man  pass  on,  unheeding  the 
destiny  that  awaits  them,  slow  to  learn  the  lessons 
these  solemn  places  are  calculated  to  teach. 

The  birds  as  they  sang  in  the  branches,  seem 
ed  breathing  a  dirge-like  melody  over  the  departed, 
and  even  their  thrilling  notes  sounded  solemn  in 
IP 


362  VISIT   TO    MOUNT   AUBURN. 

this  sacred  place,  so  strong  is  the  power  of  asso 
ciation  over  the  human  mind. 

After  spending  some  hours  in  this  shady  place, 
and  drinking  in  its  beauties  and  its  solemnities^ 
'till  the  mind  became  softened  and  subdued  by 
surrounding  influences,  we  left  it,  bearing  in  the 
memory  all  the  rich  variety  of  landscape,  we  had 
been  gazing  on. 

We  visited  Fresh  Pond,  where  so  many  go  for 
amusement.  Thus  it  is  ever,  the  living  sport  up 
on  the  very  graves  of  the  departed.  The  scenery 
here,  though  beautiful  and  picturesque,  has  not 
the  touching  influences  of  the  Cemetery,  and  so 
we  lingered  not  there,  but  returned  again  to  the 
busy  city  to  contrast  its  bustle,  and  its  stir,  with 
the  deep  quiet  and  silent  shades  of  Mount  Au 
burn. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

FROM   MARY   TO   HER   FATHER   IN   CALIFORNIA,   WITH 
HER    DAGUERREOTYPE. 


PAPA,  I  have  hither  come, 
To  cheer  you  in  your  lonely  home ; 
No  wealth  of  mind  to  you  I  bring, 
But  I  would  touch  the  secret  spring 
That  can  your  best  affections  move, 
The  fountain  of  a  father's  love. 
My  perfect  likeness  here  you  see, 
In  infantile  sobriety ; 
But  then  I  jump,  and  laugh,  and  play, 
And  call  on  mamma  all  the  day  ; 
And  though  you  distant  are  so  far, 
I'm  calling  ever  on  papa. 
If  I  a  hoe  or  spade  could  hold, 
I'd  dig  for  California  gold  : 
Or  wash  your  clothes — prepare  your  bread, 
Or  sweep  your  room,  or  make  yourbed. 
But  many  a  year  must  pass  away 
Ere  I  one  kindness  can  repay  ; 
For  I  can  only  have  control 
O'er  the  deep  currents  of  the  soul ; 
I  feel  I  have  a  kindly  part 
Within  many  a  human  heart. 
Should  life  be  spared  as  years  pass  by, 
To  winapproval  I  must  try. 
2P 


364  LINES. 

Perchance  in  passing  o'er  life's  stage, 
That  I  may  soothe  your  weary  age  ; 
And  then  in  part  the  debt  repay, 
That  now  increases  day  by  day. 
But  papa,  dig  your  heap  of  gold, 
That  we  may  soon  your  face  behold  ; 
But  to  be  patient  we  will  try, 
One  kiss,  papa,  and  now  good  by. 


A    REMINISCENCE. 


A    REMINISCENCE. 


EARLY  in  the  evening  of  a  beautiful  summer's 
day,  I  stood,  with  thousands  of  my  fellow  crea 
tures,  on  the  dock  of  one  of  our  northern  cities* 
to  witness  the  departure  of  a  noble  steamer,  which 
sat  upon  the  blue  waters  like  a  sea  bird  at  rest, 
freighted  with  the  wealth  and  beauty  of  the  land. 
The  golden  sun  had  sunk  behind  the  curtains  of 
the  west,  bathing  the  earth  with  a  flood  of  crim 
son  glory ;  and  the  noisy  hum  of  busy  life  was 
hushed,  as  the  quiet  shades  of  twilight  fell  upon 
the  tired  citizens  of  the  great  metropolis. 

Here  and  there  among  the  crowd  could  be  dis 
tinguished  a  group  of  kind  friends,  gathered  around 
some  loved  companion,  who  would  soon  be 

"  Far  out  o'er  the  ocean  blue." 

Here  a  careless,  merry  set  of  fellows  were  trying, 
with  their  bright  wit  and  lively  sallies,  to  cheer  a 
young  companion  who  was  about  to  leave  the 
home  of  his  boyhood,  to  seek  a  name  and  a  fortune 
in  a  far  distant  land. 

There  stands  a  pale,  care-worn,  yet  lovely  wo- 
3? 


366  A    REMINISCENCE. 

man,  with  a  tear  which  she  cannot  restrain,  cours 
ing  down  her  cheek,  as  with  a  convulsive  pressure 
of  the  hand  and  a  murmured,  "  God  bless  you," 
she  parts  with  her  son.  He  is  her  only  son,  and 
she  is  a  widow. 

In  yonder  proud  city  a  home  awaits  him,  where 
he  can  earn  a  slight  pittance,  to  keep  them  from 
starving. 

The  grey-haired  sire,  the  blooming  youth,  the 
middle  aged,  are  all  here,  parting  with  their 
friends,  while  yonder  gay  throng,  with  light  laugh 
and  bandied  jest,  are  offering  the  congratulations 
and  the  parting  salutations  to  a  fair  young  bride, 
arrayed  in  all  the  gorgeousness  of  wealth  and 
beauty 

The  last  word  is  spoken,  the  last  fond  pressure 
of  the  hand,  and  the  last  farewell  kiss  are  all  given, 
and  amid  the  cheers  of  the  multitude,  and  the 
whistle  of  the  engine,  the  ringing  of  the  bell,  and 
the  puff  of  the  steam,  the  noble  ship  leaves  the 
wharf,  and  ploughs  her  way  on  the  billowy  deep, 
and  the  busy  throng  seek  their  homes,  their  hearts 
beating  high  in  anticipation  of  a  coming  day, 
when  they  shall  again  welcome  the  absent  friends, 
scarcely  a  thought  of  pain  or  death  mars  their 
bright  hope. 


The  hours  pass  on.  The  full  orbed  moon  rides 
forth,  enthroned  among  her  retinue  of  stars,  in  a 
clear  cerulean  sky,  bathing  all  things  beautiful  in 
a  mellow  light.  Far  out  upon  the  blue  waters 
rides  the  noble  steamer, like  a  thing  of  life,  leav- 


A    REMINISCENCE.  367 

ing  a  long  wake  of  white  foam  behind.  Her  nu 
merous  passengers  had  laid  down  to  dream  of 
home  and  happiness.  The  gay  youth  is  with  his 
companions,  the  poor  boy  with  his  widowed  mo~ 
ther,  the  bride  in  the  home  of  her  youth — all  are 
living  over  again  the  scenes  that  are  past. 

As  they  thus  lie,  lulled  in  security,  the  startling 
cry  of  "  Fire  !  fire  ? — the  ship  is  on  fire  !"  breaks 
in  an  appalling  sound  on  the  ear.  Every  one 
springs  instantly  to  their  feet,  and  every  possible 
means  are  resorted  to,  to  quench  the  flames,  but 
all  in  vain  ;  the  flames  rush  on,  and  in  agony  the 
passengers  and  crew  await  their  doom.  The  man 
of  God,  with  his  white  hair  streaming  over  his 
shoulders,  is  calling  upon  them  to  make  their 
peace  with  God  ;  and  anon  he  kneels  and  com 
mends  them  to  his  kind  care.  The  voice  of  pray 
er,  the  hymn  of  praise,  the  groan  of  agony,  the 
silent  tear,  the  piercing  skriek,  are  alike  in  vain. 
The  destroyer  speeds  on ;  the  awful  announce 
ment  is  made  that  there  is  powder  on  board  !  Oh, 
the  untold  misery  of  that  hour,  as  in  speechless 
agony  they  watch  the  flames.  It  came  at  last — 
and  with  one  shriek  of  despair,  the  doomed  vic 
tims  were  hurled  into  eternity,  and  far  and  wide 
over  the  waters  were  scattered  the  remains  of  the 
steamer  and  her  crew. 

Morn  came.  The  waves  sparkled  merrily  in  the 
sunbeams,  and  not  a  trace  of  the  fell  destroyer 
remains ;  but  far — far  down  in  the  depth  of  the 
ocean,  on  a  bed  of  green  sea  flowers,  reposes  the 
form  of  that  fair  young  bride — the  friend  of  my 
youth. 

4p 


LETTER   OP   RESIGNATION- 


LETTER  OF  RESIGNATION, 

FROM    MRS.    IIANNA   TO  THE  MATERNAL  ASSOCIATION. 


February,  llth. 
DEAR  SISTERS  IN  CHRIST  : 

We  have  journeyed  on  together,  through  another 
year,  until  we  have  reached  that  elevated  period, 
where  it  has  been  our  wont  to  pause  and  take  a 
retrospective  view  of  the  past,  and  lay  plans  for 
the  future. 

Has  the  progress  of  our  Association  been  satis 
factory  ?  I  feel,  my  dear  sisters,  that  while  we 
have  some  things  to  deplore,  we  have  much  to  be 
thankful  for.  No  mother  has  been  taken  by  death 
from  our  circle,  and  we  have  been  called  to  part 
with  but  one  darling  child ;  and  while  God  has 
taken  from  us  one  immortal  spirit  to  bloom  in  his 
paradise  above,  he  has  in  his  rich  mercy  bestowed 
upon  us  another  to  claim  our  sympathies  and  our 
prayers.  H 

Another  year  is  gone — solemn  thought !  As  we 
glance  at  the  record  of  its  events,  and  contemplate 
its  changes,  wre  can  but  feel  a  realizing  sense  o-f 


LETTER   OF   RESIGNATION.  369 

the  shortness  of  time,  and  the  necessity  of  improv 
ing  the  present  to  the  best  possible  advantage. 
One  after  another  has  dropped  from  our  little  cir 
cle,  till  we  are  left  but  few  in  number ;  but  enough 
to  claim  the  precious  promise  of  the  blessed  Sa 
viour,  that  he  will  be  with  us  if  we  meet  in  his 
name.  And,  my  sisters,  has  he  not  verified  his 
promise  unto  us  ?  for  have  we  not  felt  our  hearts 
burn  within  us,  when  we  have  knelt  together  be 
fore  a  mercy  seat,  and  poured  forth  our  prayers 
into  the  ear  of  that  pitying  Saviour,  beseeching 
him  to  have  compassion  upon  us  and  our  children. 
Have  not  the  hours  we  have  spent  together,  con 
versing  upon  the  things  that  pertain  to  the  king 
dom  of  God,  and  the  moral  and  spiritual  improve 
ment  of  our  children,  been  to  us  like  the  oasis  in 
the  desert  to  the  weary  traveller  ?  and  may  we 
not  look  back  upon  them  as  the  spots  where  we 
rested  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty,  and 
drank  from  the  healing  w;aters  of  salvation.  And 
my  sisters,  though  we  may  not  see  the  immediate 
results  of  our  labors,  let  us  rely  upon  the  rich 
promises  of  God,  that  in  due.  time  the  seed  shall 
spring  up  and  bear  fruit,  some  ten,  twenty,  thirty, 
sixty — perchance  some  an  hundred  fold.  Then  let 
us  be  encouraged  to  do  with  all  our  might  what 
our  hands  find  to  do. 

As  we  see  the  vacancies  the  past  year  has  made, 
we  can  but  feel,  with  Job,  "  that  when  a  few  more 
years  are  come,  I  shall  go  the  way  whence  I  shall 
not  return."  And  truly  we  may  adopt  the  lan 
guage  of  Paul,  "Seeing  these  things  are  so,  what 
5P 


370  LETTER    OP    RESIGNATION. 

manner  of  persons  ought  we  to  be,  in  all  holy  con 
versation  and  godliness." 

My  dear  sisters,  it  now  devolves  upon  me  to  re 
sign  the  office  necessity  rather  than  choice  com 
pelled  me  to  accept,  and  I  feel  that  in  so  doing,  I 
shall  best  promote  the  interests  of  the  Association. 
I  thank  you  for  your  kind  forbearance  toward  my 
short  comings,  which  have  been  many.  I  regret 
that  I  have  served  you  so  inefficiently,  and  hope 
the  better  offices  of  the  succeeding  year  may  tend 
to  the  greater  promotion  of  the  holy  objects  of your 
Association.  And  while  we  meet  together,  and  pray 
together,  and  together  wait  for  the  harvest,  may  we 
be  bound  together  in  the  love  of  Christ,  and  each 
succeeding  year  add  new  supplies  of  grace. 
Yours,  affectionately,  in  Christ, 

A.   S.    II  ANN  A, 


IMPROVEMENT  OF   TIME. 


IMPROVEMENT  OF  TIME. 


THERE  is  nothing  more  necessary  for  our  future 
welfare  than  the  improvement  of  time.  Our  time 
is  too  valuable  to  be  spent  in  idleness.  If  we 
wish  to  be  respected,  we  must  be  industrious ;  and 
to  be  industrious  we  must  know  how  to  value  our 
time.  Every  moment  must  be  spent  as  we  should 
wish  it  had  been  when  we  come  to  years  of  discre 
tion.  There  are  many  things  that  we  can  busy 
ourselves  in  doing  that  will  fill  up  a  few  leisure 
moments,  and  perhaps  it  will  do  some  good.  If 
we  are  poor,  we  can  relieve  our  parents  in  trying 
to  assist  them  in  the  daily  labors  and  toils  of  life, 
for  hard  must  be  the  lot  of  that  toil-wTorn  father, 
and  care-worn  mother,  who  have  a  numerous  fam- 
jly  to  maintain  by  their  daily  labor,  all  careless 
and  indifferent  of  their  hardships  and  fatigues. 
If  we  are  rich,  we  can  make  those  happy 
around  us  by  the  thousand  nameless  attentions 
which  the  hand  of  industry  alone  can  supply. 
Therefore,  whatever  our  situation  in  life  may  be, 
the  good  improvement  of  our  time  will  not  only 
6p 


372  IMPROVEMENT    OP    TIME. 

tend  to  promote  our  usefulness,  but  our  happi 
ness.  Take  for  instance  a  man  who  has  indulged 
in  habits  of  indolence  from  his  childhood,  and  see 
what  it  has  brought  him  to.  He  has  been  in  the 
habit  of  lounging  about  the  streets  unemployed, 
or  perhaps  watching  for  opportunities  for  mischief; 
step  by  step  he  descends  in  his  moral  degradation; 
vice  succeeds  folly,  till  a  dark  catalogue  of  crimes 
brings  him  to  a  drunkard's  grave,  State  prison,  or 
the  gallows.  While,  on  the  other  hand,  take  a 
man  who  has  been  accustomed  to  labor  and  toil 
for  his  daily  food,  and  see  how  much  more  he  is 
respected,  and  what  a  difference  there  is  in  the 
lives  of  those  two  men.  The  one  is  beloved  and 
respected,  and  the  other  is  miserable  and  de 
graded. 

The  industrious  man  begins  life,  and  perhaps 
has  no  better  prospects  before  him  than  his  com 
panion  ;  but  see  how  much  better  he  ends  life  than 
the  other.  He  begins  to  climb  the  ladder  of 
science,  and  by  perseverance,  he  will  soon  reach 
the  top  round,  and  he  can  not  do  this  unless  he 
improves  his  time. 

We  have  ample  proof  that  unless  we  improve 
our  time  we  can  not  be  happy  or  respected,  and 
when  we  have  a  feeling  of  indolence  come  over 
us,  we  must  shake  it  off  and  try  to  arouse  our  en 
ergies,  and  we  must  bear  in  mind  that  for  every 
idle  moment  we  must  give  an  account  at  the  bar 
of  God  on  the  judgment  day,  before  God  and 
man. 


LINES. 


LINES, 

WRITTEN   OX   THK   DEATH    OF    FUAXK". 

Fon  tlieir  darling  boy  they  weep, — 

For  their  beautiful  and  bright, 
Who  sweetly  fell  asleep, 

One  mild,  autumnal  night, 
And  the  wind  his  requiem  sang. 

As  his  spirit  passed  away, 
From  this  world  of  toil  and  pain, 

To  the  realms  of  endless  day. 

They  bore  him  to  the  grave, — 

To  his  long  and  silent  home, 
Where  the  trees  in  summer  wave. 

And  the  birds  and  blossoms  come  ; — 
Where  the  sunlight  faintly  creeps, 

And  the  autumn  breezes  moan, 
There  the  loved  one  softly  sleeps, 

In  his  chamber  dark  and  lone. 

Now  vacant  is  the  chair, 

At  the  table  and  the  hearth, — 
They  miss  him  every  when', 

"U  ith  the  voice  of  joy  and  mirth. 
They  seek  for  him  in  vain, 

In  the  chamber  when1  he  lay, 
Through  weary  months  of  pain, 

Wf  sting  slowly,  day  by  day. 

Ho  sweetly  fell  asleep, 

As  an  infant  sinks  to  rest, 


374  LINES. 

When  sunlight  shadows  creep, 
Along  the  rosy  west. 

Gently  as  falls  the  rose, 
Fanned  by  the  zephyr's  breath, 

So  his  eyelids  softly  closed, 
In  the  quiet  sleep  of  death. 

He  has  gone  to  his  rest  ; 

Oh  !  weep  not  for  the  dead, — 
For  the  loved  and  the  lost 

Let  no  bitter  tears  be  shed. 
We  trust  that  he  lias  gone. 

With  the  glorified  to  dwell, 
And  say,  "  God's  will  be  done — 

He  doeth  all  things  well. 


THE   I'LEASURES   OF   MEMORY. 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


MEMORY  is  a  choice  gift  bestowed  on  man.  It 
is  a  boundless  source  of  pleasure  to  most  all  per 
sons,  unless  their  lives  have  been  fraught  with 
crimes  of  so  daring  a  nature,  that  it  makes  the 
the  heart  revolt  at  the  very  thought  of  them.  It 
is  pleasant  at  times  to  revert  to  the  scenes  of  by 
gone  days,  and  recall  one  beloved  companion  and 
another,  that  have  passed  away,  and  to  think  of 
the  many  happy  interviews  we  have  held  with 
them. 

It  is  necessary  for  the  scholar  to  improve  his 
memory,  that  he  may  retain  what  he  learns ;  that 
it  may  be  of  use  to  him  at  some  future  time  ;  that 
he  may  receive  the  reward  he  has  anxiously  sought 
for.  It  is  pleasant  to  the  aged  to  recall  the  scenes 
that  have  long  since  slumbered  in  oblivion,  and 
awaken  from  the  hallowed  precincts  of  the  dead, 
thoughts  of  friends  with  whom  they  were  wont  to 
associate  in  their  early  days,  and  retrace  the  sports 
of  their  childhood,  when  health  and  activity  nerved 
their  limbs,  and  happiness  filled  their  bosoms. 

It  is  pleasant  to  look  back  upon  past  pleasures, 


376  THE    PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 

to  recall  the  beautiful  scenes  we  have  once  wit 
nessed,  the  smile  of  friendship,  the  tear  of  sympa 
thy,  the  glance  of  affection,  the  tone  of  love,  or 
to  listen  again  to  the  thrilling  sounds  of  soul-en 
rapturing  music,  that  has  once  delighted  us.  But 
so  varied  is  our  pathway  of  life,  that  a  thorough 
retrospection  must  ever  be  fraught  with  sad  as 
well  as  pleasing  reflection.  Is  memory  thus  faith 
ful  to  her  trust?  Then  how  necessary  that  we 
should  improve  each  moment,  as  it  glides  along  into 
the  unbounded  ocean  of  eternity,  that  it  may  bear 
a  good  record  to  the  future  hour.  And,  0,  how 
necessary  that  we  should  so  spend  our  lives,  that 
when  we  come  to  be  laid  upon  our  death-bed,  in 
the  last  agonies  of  expiring  nature,  if  reason  does 
not  forsake  her  throne,  and  memory  still  proves 
true  to  her  trust,  it  may  bring  up  the  pleasing 
recollection  that  life  has  been  well  spent. 


TTTE    SOXO    OF    THE    WEARY   ONE, 


THE  SONO  OF  THE  WEARY  ONE. 


THERE  is  no  music  in  my  heart, — 

No  joy  within  my  breast; 
In  scenes  of  mirth  I  have  no  part, — 

In  quiet  scenes  no  rest. 

Mine  is  a  weariness  of  life, — 

A  sickness  of  the  soul ; 
An  ever  constant  struggling  strife, 

My  fecHngri  to  control. 

Oh,  it  was  ever — ever  thus, 

From  childhood's  earliest  hour ; 

My  spirits  ever  were  weighed  down, 
By  some  mysterious  power. 

There  seemed  some  dark,  unearthly  fate, 

Around  my  life  to  twine  ; 
That  which  brings  joy  to  other  hearts, 

] 'rings  mournfuluess  to  mine. 

And  yet  I  arn  too  proud  to  weep, 

I  never  could  complain  ; 
And  so  they  deem  iny  spirit  feels 

Xo  weariness  or  pain. 

They  read  not  in  my  sunken  eye, 

And  in  my  faded  check. 
A  weight  of  wretchedness  and  woe, 

That  words  could  nover  speak. 


378      THE  SONG  OF  THE  WEARY  ONE. 

Ob,  'tis  a  weary — weary  lot, 
To  live  when  joy  is  gone  ; — 

To  feel  life  has  no  sunny  spot, 
Yet  still  we  must  live  on. 

To  mingle  with  the  laughing  crowd, 

Yet  feel  we  are  alone  ; 
To  know  there's  not  one  hnman  heart 

Can  understand  our  own. 

Oh,  Thou,  who  sitt'st  enthroned  on  high, 

Who  every  heart  can  see, 
Look  down  in  pity  and  in  love, 

And  take  me  home  to  thee . 


LINES. 


LINES, 

INSCRIBED     TO     A     BROTHER. 

A  XEW  Year's  gift  I  send  to  thee, 

A  volume  filled  with  quaint  old  rhymes ; 

And  may  it  wake  the  memory 
Within  thy  heart,  of  olden  times. 

When  we  by  the  cheerful  fireside  hearth, 
Together  conned  the  glowing  page, 

Grave  themes,  and  subjects  full  of  mirth, 
Did  each  by  turns  our  minds  engage. 

Oh,  then,  what  rapture  filled  my  heart, 

How  throbb'd  my  brow — how  buru'd  my  brain, 

As  the  poet  with  his  magic  art, 

Wove  the  deep  mysteries  of  his  strain. 

But  now  a  leaden  stupor  lies 

Upon  my  dull,  inactive  soul ; 
In  vain  my  spirit  strives  to  rise, 

From  the  dark  mists  that  o'er  it  roll. 

Nor  legend  old,  nor  wild  romance, 

Nor  fairy  tale,  nor  minstrel  lyre, 
Can  with  their  magic  power  entrance, 

Or  one  impassion' d  thought  inspire. 

Thus,  like  the  rosy  sunset  hues, 

Fade  fancy's  pictures  from  the  soul, 

The  light  that  youth's  fair  skies  imbued, 
Is  merged  in  clouds  that  o'er  us  roll. 


CHANGES. 


CHANGE  S. 


WHO  has  not  observed  the  mutability  and 
ever  changing  aspect  of  earthly  things  ?  Here,  in 
this  pleasant  village,  where  rises  the  towering 
spire,  the  lofty  mansion  and  the  humble  cottage, 
with  all  the  varieties  appertaining  to  our  village, 
its  numerous  factories  and  pleesant  school  houses, 
its  well  erected  bridge  over  its  foaming  waters, 
once  the  Indian  roamed,  in  untamed  freedom, 
through  forests  unbroken  by  the  woodman's  axe. 
Here  resounded  the  fierce  war-whoop,  and  here 
the  \vild  death  song;  here  was  built  the  council- 
fire,  and  here  was  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace  ;  in 
fine,  here  on  this  very  spot  existed  all  the  elements 
of  savage  life.  The  light  canoe  was  paddled  over 
the  roaring  stream,  that  thundered  on  in  its  majes 
ty,  even  as  now. 

But  the  white  man  came  and  scattered  the  race, 
and  civilization  spread  its  changes  over  the  scene. 
Thus  society  is  ever  changing;  even  beautiful 
cities  that  have  existed  in  all  the  pomp  of  wealth 
and  elegance,  have  now  become  extinct,  and  are 
covered  by  the  dust  of  ages. 


CHANGES.  3S1 

Man's  life,  too,  is  one  constant  sceue  of  change, 
from  infancy  to  childhood,  from  childhood  to  man 
hood,  and  from  manhood  to  old  age.  And  many 
are  the  vicissitudes  which  await  us  during  our 
journey  through  life.  One  generation  passes 
away  to  be  succeeded  by  another ;  we  too  must 
change,  and  when  we  shall  be  sought  by  our 
friends  in  our  accustomed  places,  and  they  shall 
ask.  "  Where  are  they  ?  "  Echo  shall  answer, 
"Where  ?" 


LINES. 


LINES, 

TO  MR.  AND  MRS  S ,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INF  ANT  - 

THE  fairest  flow'r  that  blooms  on  earth, 

And  charms  the  gazer's  eye, 
Is  first  to  lose  its  brilliant  hues, 

And  fade  away  and  die. 

Soft  it  unfolds  its  petals  rare, 

To  gentle  dew  and  sun, 
But  come  one  blast  of  chilling  air, 

And  all  its  beauty's  gone. 

E'en  so  is  life  ;  the  glow  of  health 

That  warms  the  youthful  cheek, 
Seems  to  invite  the  tyrant  Death, 

His  helpless  prey  to  seek. 

Thy  little  babe  scarce  'woke  to  life, 

And  promis'd  fair  to  bloom, 
Ere  cruel  Death  his  victim  seiz'd, 

And  bore  it  to  the  tomb. 

We  fondly  watch'd  with  anxious  eye, 

For  Hope  had  promise  giv'n  ; 
And  little  deem'd  that  passing  sigh, 

Had  borne  his  soul  to  heav'n. 

Calm  as  the  breath  of  summer  eve, 

On  flow'r  and  foliage  shed, 
And  pure  as  midnight's  heav'nly  dew, 

His  gentle  spirit  fled. 


LINES  383 


Then  let  not  grief  for  him  abide 

Within  a  parent's  breast, 
For  while  his  flesh  returns  to  dust, 

His  soul's  with  God  at  rest. 

When  we  from  earth  are  call'd  away, 
By  God's  own  summons  giv'u, 

May  we  as  tranquilly  depart, 
And  be  as  sure  of  heav'n. 


THE    SPIRITS    OF    THE    DEAD. 


THE  SPIRITS  OF  THE  DEAD. 


"  Are  they  not  all  ministering  spirits,  sent  forth  to  minister  unto  them 
who  shall  be  heirs  of  salvation  ?" 


SOME  say  the  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Are  hovering  o'er  our  way  ; 
At  night  they  watch  around  our  bed, 

And  guard  our  steps  by  day. 

Their  shadowy  forms  are  floating  round, 

In  parlor  and  in  hall ; 
They  come  and  go  without  a  sound, — 

As  night  dews  gently  fall. 

One  writer  says,  "  Their  airy  forms 

Are  round  us  everywhere ; 
They  are  flitting  in  and  out  the  door, 

And  up  and  down  the  stairs." 

Others  the  theory  deride  ; 

But  oft  it  seems  to  me, 
Beings  are  present  by  my  side, 

Which  yet,  I  cannot  see. 

Sometimes  I  start  and  gaze  around, 

With  half-bewildered  air, 
Thinking  some  lov'd  one's  form  to  sec, 

Within  the  vacant  chair. 

Sometimes  a  gentle  rustling 

Falls  faintly  on  the  ear  ; 
Some  angel,  with  the  radiant  wing, 

Perchance  is  hov'ring  near. 


THE    SPIRITS   OF   THE    DEAD.  385 

*'-.Ve  watch  the  dying  Christian's  bed, 

Wlu'ii  death  hns  marked  his  prey  ; 
He  struggles  painfully  for  breath, 

And  longs  to  pass  away. 

But  suddenly  his  eye  grows  bright. 

Lit  by  unearthly  fires  ; 
He  gazes  upward  with  delight, — 

The  angels  strike  their  lyres. 

The  music  falls  npon  his  ear, 

In  sweet  seraphic  strains ; 
Nought  earthly  can  detain  him  here, — 

His  spirit  bursts  its  chains. 

Ossian,  old  Scotia's  ancient  bard, 

The  genius  of  the  past ; 
"•Saw  ghosts  upon  the  fleecy  clouds, 

And  heard  them  in  the  blast. 

The  spirits  of  the  mighty  dead, 

That  were  in  battle  slain, 

<Jame  by  his  master  spirit  led, 

Back  to  this  earth  again. 

Their  shadowy  forms,  fea  mist  arrayed-, 

Hode  on  the  drifting  clouds  ; 
The  fork'd  lightnings  round  them  play'd, 

And  thunders  echo'd  loud. 

Fiercely  they  shook  their  airy  spears. 

And  clos'd  in  deadly  fight 
Shriek'd,  as  in  agony  and  fear, 

Then  vanish'd  from  the  sight. 

Thus  did  old  Scotia's  ancient  bard, 

Hold  converse  with  the  dead  ; 
"  Back  in  the  dim  and  shadowy  past ; 

Those  phantoms  all  had  fled. 

1Q 


386  THE   SPIRITS   OF   THE   DEAD,; 

There  let  them  rest ;  years  have  rolled  OE< 
Down  the  dark  tide  of  time  ; 

Our  loftier  faith  is  built  upon 
A  structure  more  sublime. 

We  know  if  angel  spirits  come 

From  other  worlds  to  this, 
They  are  sent  to  guide  us  to  our  home,. 

Where  God  our  Father  is. 


THE    WIDOW'S    HOME. 


THE    WIDOW'S    HOME 


.ALAS,  my  home  is  lonely, — 
They've  parted  from  my  side; 

!My  husband  in  the  church  yard's  laid; 
My  daughter  is  a  bride. 

-She's  stood  beside  the  altar, 
And  breath'd  that  solemn  vow. 

From  which  she  may  not  falter, 
Till  life  is  ended  now. 

But,  oh,  my  home  is  lonely, — 
I  miss  them  by  the  hearth  ; 

\Vlion  evening  shadows  gather  'round, 
I  miss  their  social  mirth. 

I  miss  the  glances  of  the  eye, 

The  old  familiar  tone, — 
And  feel  indeed,  the  widow's  home 

Is  desolate  and  Icne. 

And  when  vre  gather  round  the  board, 
There's  each  one's  vacant  chair  ; 

And,  oh,  I  miss  them  every  hour — 
And  miss  them  every  where. 

IBut  still  there  must  be  changes. 

While  time  is  stealing  by, 
.Alternate  sun  and  shadow 

Will  flit  across  the  sky 
2Q 


TO    MRS,    .7.    0.    BUCKLIN. 


TO     MRS.    Jl    C.     B  U  C  K  L  I  N 

BY    HER    FATHER. 


MY  child,  why  weepcst  thou?  Arc  these  deep 
drawn  lines  of  sorrow  alone  thy  garlands  ?  Why 
this  dreary  awe,  this  languishing  on  all  around 
you?  ]>ut  hush,  these  are  the  foot-prints  ot 
Death ;  he  has  indeed  been  with  you  in  his 
uncertain  rounds.  The  deep,  reposing  influences, 
indicate  his  path.  I  will  not  dare  to  question 
a  mother's  love,  so  strange  and  inexplicable  in 
power,  and  so  mysterious  in  operation,  gentle  as 
the  breathing  of  the  memory,  Ungovernable  a& 
the  whirlwind  in  its  frenzy,  tender  as  the  angel 
of  sympathy,  yet  stronger  than  the  bands  of  Death,. 
it  is  painful  to  witness  such  a  cloud  of  sorrow  rest 
ing  on  one  so  young  as  you,  without  an  atheistic 
questioning,  the  all-wise  purposes  of  our  Fathev 
in  heaven. 

Your  own  lovely  babe  you  so.  fondly  adored, 
Dcatli's  torn  from  the  heart  of  her  mother  ; 
So  full  was  your  soul  of  a,  mother's  deep  love, 
You  would  gladly  have  died  to  restore  her. 
Poor  fragile,  fading,  short-lived  flrw'r, 
She  was  bright  uud  lovelv  for  an  hour.. 


TO    THE   READER, 


TO    THE    READER, 


AND  now,  courteous  reader,  perchance  thou  art 
weary  with  thy  wanderings,  and  the  flowers  we 
have  gathered  may  appear  withered  to  thee,  and 
devoid  of  beauty  or  fragrance,  and  the  peep  into 
memory's  inner  chambers  may  not  have  afforded 
thee  the  pleasure  that  I  have  derived  from  the 
survey.  If  so,  farewell,  I  will  intrude  no  more 
upon  thy  time  or  patience.  The  curtain  has  fallen, 
the  dim,  misty*  curtain,  and  memory  has  turned 
her  golden  key,  closed  her  portfolio,  and  sat  down 
with  folded  hands,  to  brood  over  her  hoarded  trea 
sures,  placing  each  in  its  proper  place,  to  be  brought 
forward  again  at  her  mandate,  to  beguile,  per 
chance,  other  weary  midnight  hours  with  their 
magic  spell.  The  past  cannot  be  redeemed,  and 
the  future  is  hid  in  uncertainty  ;  but  the  present, 
the  golden  present  is  ours,  and  while  our  little 
bark  is  floating  upon  the  stream  of  time,  let  us 
improve  the  precious  moments  as  they  fly,  and 
spend  them  in  a  cultivation  of  the  best  affections 
of  the  human  mind.  The  mind,  that  boundless 
ocean  of  human  thought  that  is  placed  within 


-390  TO    THE    HEADER. 

each  individual,  stretching  on  throughout  the  ce.-ise 
less  ;iges  of  eternity.  But  there  must  conic  a 
solemn  time  to  all  whcxlive.  Death  is  upon  our 
track,  and  will  surely  soon  overtake  us,  and  our 
decaying  bodies  must  be  hid  forever  from  sight 
beneath  the  clods  of  the  valley  ;  but  these  minds 
shall  then  live,  and  happy  they  who,  by  a  culti 
vation  of  the  best  principles  of  our  nature,  have 
an  antepast  of  heaven  while  upon  earth. 

May  this  be  our  happy  case,  gentle  reader,  if 
we  meet  not  again  on  earth,  we  shall  meet  in 
heaven,  "  for  we  must  all  stand  before  the  judg 
ment  seat  of  Christ."  I  have  spread  out  before 
you  the  secret  musings  of  many  a  midnight  hour, 
and  I  feel  that  I  am  responsible  for  what  I  have 
written.  May  God  grant  forgivne.ss  tor  the  wrong. 
And  thus  we  part,  gentle  reader,  to  toss  yet  a  Jil- 
tie  longer  upon  the  stream  of  time,  ere  its  waves 
and  its  billows  pass  over  us  forever. 

"  When  midnight  o'er  the  moonless  skies, 

Her  .-hades  of  mimic  death  lias  spread, 
When  mortals  sleep,  when  spectres  rise  ; 

And  nought  is  wakeful  but  the  dead. 
No  bloodless  shape  my  path  pursues  ; 

No  shiv'ring  ghost  my  couch  annoys, 
Visions  more  sad  my  fancy  views, 

Visions  of  dear  departed  joys, — 
The  shade  of  Youthful  hope  is  there,'" 


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